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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/4629-h.zip b/4629-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..93e6865 --- /dev/null +++ b/4629-h.zip diff --git a/4629-h/4629-h.htm b/4629-h/4629-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a1cee9c --- /dev/null +++ b/4629-h/4629-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9270 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of Home Scenes, and Home Influence, +by T. S. Arthur +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.transnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.intro {font-size: medium ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Home Scenes, and Home Influence, by T. S. Arthur + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Home Scenes, and Home Influence + A Series of Tales and Sketches + +Author: T. S. Arthur + +Posting Date: August 18, 2009 [EBook #4629] +Release Date: November, 2003 +First Posted: February 20, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOME SCENES, AND HOME INFLUENCE *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +HOME SCENES, AND HOME INFLUENCE. +</H1> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +A Series of Tales and Sketches. +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +T. S. ARTHUR. +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +PHILADELPHIA: +<BR> +1854. +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PREFACE. +</H3> + +<P> +MANY of the scenes presented in this volume are such as show the +mother's influence with her children; a few include the marriage +relation; and a few give other domestic pictures. In all will be +found, we trust, motives for self-denial and right action in the +various conditions of social life. Home is the centre of good as +well as of bad influence. How much, then, depends on those to whom +have been committed the sacred trust of giving to the home-circle +its true power over the heart! +</P> + +<P> +This volume makes the fifth in "ARTHUR'S LIBRARY FOR THE HOUSEHOLD." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS. +</H2> + +<H4> + <A HREF="#comfort">TAKING COMFORT.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#children">CHILDREN—A FAMILY SCENE.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#temper">LOSING ONE'S TEMPER.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#servants">TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#change">HAVEN'T THE CHANGE.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#maids">OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#mother">THE MOTHER AND BOY.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#party">THE CHRISTMAS PARTY.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#lady">IS SHE A LADY?</A><BR> + <A HREF="#mourning">GOING INTO MOURNING.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#child">IF THAT WERE MY CHILD.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#iwill">I WILL!</A><BR> + <A HREF="#influence">A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#patience">THE POWER OF PATIENCE.</A><BR> + <A HREF="#oldman">AN OLD MAN'S RECOLLECTIONS.</A><BR> +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="comfort"></A> +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +HOME SCENES. +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +TAKING COMFORT. +</H3> + +<P> +"REALLY, this is comfortable!" said I, glancing around the +handsomely furnished parlour of my young friend Brainard, who had, a +few weeks before, ventured upon matrimony, and was now making his +first experiments in housekeeping. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it is comfortable," replied my friend. "The fact is, I go in +for comforts." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid George is a little extravagant," said the smiling bride, +as she leaned towards her husband and looked tenderly into his face. +</P> + +<P> +"No, not extravagant, Anna," he returned; "all I want is to have +things comfortable. Comfort I look upon as one of the necessaries of +life, to which all are entitled. Don't you?" +</P> + +<P> +I was looking at a handsome new rose-wood piano when this question +was addressed to me, and thinking about its probable cost. +</P> + +<P> +"We should all make the best of what we have," I answered, a little +evasively; "and seek to be as comfortable as possible under all +circumstances." +</P> + +<P> +"Exactly. That's my doctrine," said Brainard. "I'm not rich, and +therefore don't expect to live in a palace, and have every thing +around me glittering with silver and gold; but, out of the little I +possess, shall endeavour to obtain the largest available dividend of +comfort. Ain't I right?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps so." +</P> + +<P> +"You speak coldly," said my friend. "Don't you agree with me? Should +not every man try to be as comfortable as his means will permit?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, certainly." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course he should. Some men set a value upon money above every +thing else, and sacrifice all comfort to its accumulation; but I +don't belong to that class. Money is a good gift, because it is the +means of procuring natural blessings. I receive it thankfully, and +use it wisely. You see how I am beginning life." +</P> + +<P> +"I do." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what do you think of it?" +</P> + +<P> +By this time my observation of things had become more particular, +and I saw many evidences of expenditures that indicated a lavish +spirit. +</P> + +<P> +"What rent do you pay?" I asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Three hundred." +</P> + +<P> +I shook my head. +</P> + +<P> +"Too much?" said Brainard. +</P> + +<P> +"I think so." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps it is a little high. But you can't get a genteel, +comfortable house, in a good neighbourhood, for any thing less." +</P> + +<P> +As it was my first visit to the young couple, who were but a few +weeks past their honey-moon, I did not feel like questioning the +propriety of my friend's conduct to the serious extent he was about +involving himself; and so evaded replying to this excuse for taking +at least a hundred dollars more rent upon himself than he was +justified in doing by his circumstances, he being simply a clerk, +with a salary of one thousand dollars. +</P> + +<P> +"Rents are high," was my apparently indifferent answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Too high," said he. "A man who wants a pleasant house has to pay +for it. This is my experience." +</P> + +<P> +The subject of conversation changed; I passed an agreeable evening; +at the close of which I left my friend and his lovely young bride in +their comfortable home. +</P> + +<P> +What I had seen and heard during the few hours spent with Brainard +made me fear that he was about committing a too common error. His +ideas of comfort were not in keeping with his circumstances. Some +days subsequently I saw my friend and his wife riding out in a +handsome vehicle, drawn by a gay horse. +</P> + +<P> +"Taking their comfort," said I, as I paused and looked upon the +happy young couple. +</P> + +<P> +Not long after, I saw them dashing off again to enjoy an afternoon's +ride. Next, I met them at a fashionable concert. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you been to the opera yet?" asked Brainard, leaning forward to +the seat that I occupied just in front of him. +</P> + +<P> +"No," was my answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Then there is a treat in store for you. We go twice, and sometimes +oftener, every week. Truffi, Benedetti, Rosi—oh! they are +enchanting." +</P> + +<P> +"Rather expensive," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"It does cost something," and Brainard shrugged his shoulders. "But +I think it's money well spent. You know that I go in for the +comforts of life." +</P> + +<P> +And he leaned back, while I thought I perceived a slight shadow flit +across his face. A singer came forward at the moment, and no more +was said. +</P> + +<P> +"It is possible," thought I, "in seeking after comfort, to get into +the wrong road. I am afraid my young friends are about committing +this error." +</P> + +<P> +I not only suggested as much to Brainard soon afterwards, but +actually presented a serious remonstrance against the course of life +he had adopted. But he only smiled at the fears I expressed, and +said he understood perfectly the nature of the ground he was +treading. Thus it is with most young persons. Be their views true or +false, they act upon them, in spite of all counsel from the more +experienced, and in the end reap their harvest of trouble or +pleasure, as the ease may be. Pride, which stimulates the desire to +make a certain appearance in the world, is generally more at fault +than a wish to secure the comforts of which my friend talked so +much. +</P> + +<P> +I had another acquaintance, by the name of Tyler, who was married +about the same time with Brainard. His tastes were as well +cultivated as those of the former, and his income was as large; yet, +in beginning the world, he had shown more prudence and a wise +forecast. I found him in a small, neat house, at a rent of one +hundred and seventy dollars. His furniture was not costly, but in +good taste and keeping with the house and his circumstances. As for +real comfort, as far as I could see, the preponderance was rather in +his favour. +</P> + +<P> +"This is really comfortable," said I, glancing around the room in +which he received me on the occasion of my first visit. +</P> + +<P> +"We think so," replied my friend, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing very elegant, but as good as we can afford, and with that +we have made up our minds to be content." +</P> + +<P> +"If all the world were as wise, all the world would be happier," I +remarked. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps so," returned Tyler. "Brainard tried to get me into a house +like the one he occupies; but I thought it more prudent to cut my +garment according to my cloth. The larger your house, the more +costly your furniture and the higher your regular expenses. He +talked about having things comfortable, as he called it, and +enjoying life as he went along; but it would be poor comfort for me +to know that I was five or six hundred dollars in debt, and all the +while living beyond my income." +</P> + +<P> +"In debt? What do you mean by that?" said I. "It isn't possible that +Brainard has gone in debt for any of his fine furniture?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is very possible." +</P> + +<P> +"To the extent of five or six hundred dollars?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. The rose-wood piano he bought for his wife cost four hundred +dollars. It was purchased on six months' credit." +</P> + +<P> +"Foolish young man!" said I. +</P> + +<P> +"You may well say that. He thinks a great deal about the comforts of +life; but he is going the wrong way to secure them, in my opinion. +His parlour furniture, including the new piano, cost nearly one +thousand dollars; mine cost three hundred; and I'm sure I would not +exchange comforts with him. It isn't what is around us so much as +what is within us, that produces pleasure. A contented mind is said +to be a continual feast. If, in seeking to have things comfortable, +we create causes of disquietude, we defeat our own ends." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish our friend Brainard could see things in the same light," +said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing but painful experience will open his eyes," remarked Tyler. +</P> + +<P> +And he was correct in this. Brainard continued to take his comfort +for a few months, although there was a gradual sinking in the +thermometer of his feelings as the time approached when the notes +given for a part of his furniture would fall due. The amount of +these notes was six hundred dollars, but he had not saved fifty +towards meeting the payments. The whole of his income had been used +in taking his comfort. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Brainard!" said I, in a tone of surprise, on meeting him one +day, nearly six months after his marriage. "What has happened?" +</P> + +<P> +"Happened? Nothing. Why do you ask?" replied the young man. +</P> + +<P> +"You look troubled." +</P> + +<P> +"Do I?" He made an effort to smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you certainly do. What has gone wrong with you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, nothing." And he tried to assume an air of indifference; but, +seeing me look incredulous, he added— +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing particularly wrong. I'm only a little worried about money +matters. The fact is, I've got two or three notes to pay next week." +</P> + +<P> +"You have?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; and what is more, I haven't the means to lift them." +</P> + +<P> +"That is trouble," said I, shaking my head. +</P> + +<P> +"It's trouble for me. Oh, dear! I wish my income were larger. A +thousand dollars a year is too little." +</P> + +<P> +"Two persons ought to live on that sum very comfortably," I +remarked. +</P> + +<P> +"We can't, then; and I'm sure we are not extravagant. Ah, me!" +</P> + +<P> +"I spent the evening with our friend Tyler last week," said I. "His +salary is the same as yours, and he told me that he found it not +only sufficient for all his wants, but that he could lay by a couple +of hundred dollars yearly." +</P> + +<P> +"I couldn't live as he does," said Brainard, a little impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think I would be cooped up in such a pigeon-box of a place?" +</P> + +<P> +"The house he lives in has six rooms, and he has but three in +family—your own number, I presume"— +</P> + +<P> +"I have four," said Brainard, interrupting me. +</P> + +<P> +"Four?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. We have a cook and chambermaid." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! Mrs. Tyler has but one domestic." +</P> + +<P> +"My wife wasn't brought up to be a household drudge," said Brainard, +contemptuously. +</P> + +<P> +"Your house has ten rooms in it, I believe?" said I, avoiding a +reply to his last remark. +</P> + +<P> +"It has." +</P> + +<P> +"But why should you pay rent for ten rooms, when you have use for +only five or six? Is not that a waste of money that might be applied +to a better purpose?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I like a large house," said my friend, tossing his head, and +putting on an air of dignity and consequence. "A hundred dollars +difference in rent is a small matter compared with the increase of +comfort it brings." +</P> + +<P> +"But the expense doesn't stop with the additional rent," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"The larger the house, the more expensive the furniture. It cost you +a thousand dollars to fit up your handsome parlour?" said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I presume it did." +</P> + +<P> +"For what amount did you give your notes?" +</P> + +<P> +"For six hundred dollars." +</P> + +<P> +"On account of furniture?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Tyler furnished his parlour for three hundred." +</P> + +<P> +There was another gesture of impatience on the part of my young +friend, as he said— +</P> + +<P> +"And such furnishing!" +</P> + +<P> +"Every thing looks neat and comfortable," I replied. +</P> + +<P> +"It may do for them, but it wouldn't suit us." +</P> + +<P> +"Whatever is accordant with our means should be made to suit us," +said I, seriously. "You are no better off than Tyler." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think I could content myself in such a place?" he replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Contentment is only found in the external circumstances that +correspond to a man's pecuniary ability," was my answer to this. +"Which, think you, is best contented? Tyler, in a small house, +neatly furnished, and with a hundred dollars in his pocket; or you, +in your large house, with a debt of six hundred dollars hanging over +you?" +</P> + +<P> +There was an instant change in my friend's countenance. The question +seemed to startle him. He sighed, involuntarily. +</P> + +<P> +"But all this won't lift my notes," said he, after the silence of a +few minutes. "Good morning!" +</P> + +<P> +Poor fellow! I felt sorry for him. He had been buying comfort at +rather too large a price. +</P> + +<P> +The more Brainard cast about in his mind for the means of lifting +his notes, the more troubled did he become. +</P> + +<P> +"I might borrow," said he to himself; "but how am I to pay back the +sum?" +</P> + +<P> +To borrow, however, was better than to let his notes be dishonoured. +So Brainard, as the time of payment drew nearer and nearer, made an +effort to get from his friends the amount of money needed. +</P> + +<P> +But the effort was not successful. Some looked surprised when he +spoke of having notes to meet; others ventured a little good advice +on the subject of prudence in young men who are beginning the world, +and hinted that he was living rather too fast. None were prepared to +give him what he wanted. +</P> + +<P> +Troubled, mortified, and humbled, Brainard retired to his +comfortable home on the evening before the day on which his note +given for the piano was to fall due. Nearly his last effort to raise +money had been made, and he saw nothing but discredit, and what he +feared even worse than that before him. Involved as he was in debt, +there was no safety from the sharp talons of the law. They might +strike him at any moment, and involve all in ruin. +</P> + +<P> +Poor Brainard! How little pleasure did the sight of his large and +pleasant house give him as it came in view on his return home. It +stood, rather as a monument of extravagance and folly, than the +abode of sweet contentment. +</P> + +<P> +"Three hundred dollars rent!" he murmured. "Too much for me to pay." +And sighed deeply. +</P> + +<P> +He entered his beautiful parlour, and gazed around upon the elegant +furniture which he had provided as a means of comfort. All had lost +its power to communicate pleasure. There stood the costly piano, +once coveted and afterwards admired. But it possessed no charm to +lay the troubled spirit within him. He had bought it as a marriage +present for his wife, who had little taste for music, and preferred +reading or sewing to the blandishment of sweet sounds. And for this +toy—it was little more in his family—a debt of four hundred +dollars had been created. Had it brought him an equivalent in +comfort? Far, very far from it. +</P> + +<P> +As Brainard stood in his elegant parlour, with troubled heart and +troubled face, his wife came in with a light step. +</P> + +<P> +"George!" she exclaimed on seeing him, her countenance falling and +her voice expressing anxious concern. "What is the matter? Are you +sick?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no!" he replied, affecting a lightness of tone. +</P> + +<P> +"But something is the matter, George," said the young wife, as she +laid her hand upon him and looked earnestly into his face. +"Something troubles you." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing of any consequence. A mere trifle," returned Brainard, +evasively. +</P> + +<P> +"A mere trifle would not cloud your brow as it was clouded a moment +since, George." +</P> + +<P> +"Trifles sometimes affect us, more seriously than graver matters." +As Brainard said this, the shadows again deepened on his face. +</P> + +<P> +"If you have any troubles, dear, let me share them, and they will be +lighter." Anna spoke with much tenderness. +</P> + +<P> +"I hardly think your sharing my present trouble will lighten it," +said Brainard, forcing a smile, "unless, in so doing, you can put +some four hundred dollars into my empty pockets." +</P> + +<P> +Anna withdrew a pace from her husband, and looked at him doubtingly. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you speak in earnest?" said she. +</P> + +<P> +"In very truth I do. To-morrow I have four hundred dollars to pay; +but where the money is to come from, is more than I can tell." +</P> + +<P> +"How in the world has that happened?" inquired Mrs. Brainard. +</P> + +<P> +Involuntarily the eyes of her husband wandered towards the piano. +She saw their direction. Her own eyes fell to the floor, and she +stood silent for some moments—silent, but hurriedly thoughtful. +Then looking up, she said, in a hesitating voice— +</P> + +<P> +"We can do without that." And she pointed towards the piano. +</P> + +<P> +"Without what?" asked Brainard, quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"The piano. It cost four hundred dollars. Sell it." +</P> + +<P> +"Never!" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't mention it, Anna. Sell your piano! It shall never be done." +</P> + +<P> +"But, George"— +</P> + +<P> +"It's no use to talk of that, Anna; I will not listen to it." +</P> + +<P> +And so the wife was silenced. +</P> + +<P> +Little comfort had the young couple that evening in their finely +furnished house. Brainard was silent and thoughtful, while Anna felt +the pressure of a heavy weight upon her feelings. +</P> + +<P> +How different was it in the smaller and more plainly attired +dwelling of Tyler! There was comfort, and there were peace and +contentment, her smiling handmaids. +</P> + +<P> +On the next morning, Brainard found it impossible to conceal from +his wife the great anxiety he felt. She said very little to him, for +his trouble was of a kind for which she could suggest no remedy. +After he parted with her at the door, she returned and sat down in +one of the parlours to think. The piano was before her, and back to +that her thoughts at length came. It was not only a beautiful +instrument, but one of great excellence. Often had it been admired +by her friends, and particularly by a lady who had several times +expressed a wish to own one exactly like it in every respect. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish you would let me have that piano," the lady had said to her +not a week before; and said it as much in earnest as in jest. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder if she really would buy it?" mused Mrs. Brainard. "I don't +want so fine an instrument. My old piano is a very good one, and is +useless at father's. Oh! if I could only get George the four hundred +dollars he wants so badly!" +</P> + +<P> +And she struck her hands together as her thoughts grew earnest on +the subject. For more than an hour the mind of Mrs. Brainard gave +itself up to this one idea. Then she dressed herself and went out. +Without consulting any one, she called upon the lady to whom +reference has been made. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. Aiken," said she, coming at once to the point, "you have often +remarked that you would like to own that piano of mine. Were you +really in earnest?" +</P> + +<P> +"In earnest? Certainly I was." Mrs. Aiken smiled, at the same time +that a slight expression of surprise came into her face. "It's one +of the finest instruments I ever touched." +</P> + +<P> +"It's for sale," said Mrs. Brainard, in a firm, business-like way. +"So there is a chance for you to call it your own." +</P> + +<P> +"For sale! Why do you say that, Anna?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's too costly an instrument for me to own. My old piano is a very +good one—quite good enough for all my purposes." +</P> + +<P> +"But this is your husband's wedding-gift, if I remember rightly?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know it is; but the gift was too costly a one for a young man +whose salary is only a thousand dollars a year." +</P> + +<P> +"Then he wishes to sell it." +</P> + +<P> +"No, indeed, not he!" +</P> + +<P> +"And would you sell it without consulting him?" said Mrs. Aiken. +</P> + +<P> +"Such is my intention." +</P> + +<P> +"He might be very much displeased." +</P> + +<P> +"No matter; I would soon smooth his frowning brow. But, Mrs. Aiken, +we won't discuss that matter. The instrument is to be sold. Do you +want it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well. Are you prepared to buy it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps so. It cost four hundred dollars?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"What is your price?" +</P> + +<P> +"The same." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you make no deduction?" said Mrs. Aiken, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't like to do that. It's as good as new. If I can sell it, +I want to be able to put in my husband's hands just what he paid for +it." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, then you want the money for your husband?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, I do. What use have I for four hundred dollars?" +</P> + +<P> +"You've come just in time, Anna," said Mrs. Aiken. "I arranged with +my husband to meet him this morning, at his store, to go and look at +some pianos. But if yours is really for sale, we have no occasion to +take any further trouble." +</P> + +<P> +"It is for sale, Mrs. Aiken. Understand this." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well. When do you want the money?" +</P> + +<P> +"This morning." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know about that. However, I will see Mr. Aiken +immediately." +</P> + +<P> +"Shall I wait here for you?" +</P> + +<P> +"You may do so, or I will call at your house." +</P> + +<P> +"Do that, if you please." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well. In an hour, at most, I will see you." +</P> + +<P> +The two ladies then parted. +</P> + +<P> +When Mr. Brainard left his house that morning, he felt wretched. +Where—how was he to get four hundred dollars? To go to the party +from whom he had bought the piano, and confess that he was not able +to pay for it, had in it something so humiliating, that he could not +bear the thought for a moment. But if the note was not paid,—what +then? Might not the instrument be demanded? And how could he give it +up now? Or, worse, might it not be seized under execution? +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, that I had never bought it!" he at length exclaimed, mentally, +in the bitterness of his feelings. And then he half chid himself for +the extorted declaration. +</P> + +<P> +Nearly the whole of the morning was spent in the vain attempt to +borrow the needed sum. But there was no one to lend him four hundred +dollars. At length, in his desperation, he forced himself to apply +for a quarter's advance of salary. +</P> + +<P> +"No doubt," said he, within himself, "that the holder of the note +will take two hundred and fifty dollars on account, and give me time +on the balance." +</P> + +<P> +About the ways and means of living for the next three months, after +absorbing his salary in advance, he did not pause to think. He was +just in that state of mind in which he could say, with feeling, +"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Unhappily, his effort +to raise money by this expedient failed. His application was +received coldly, and in a way to mortify him exceedingly. +</P> + +<P> +Half desperate, and half despairing, Brainard started for his home +about one o'clock, his usual hour for dining. What was he to do? He +turned his thoughts to the right and to the left, groping about like +a man in the dark. But no light broke in upon his mental vision. +</P> + +<P> +"It will not do to meet Anna in this way," said he, as he approached +his own door. "I left her with a troubled countenance in the +morning. Now I must force an assumed cheerfulness." +</P> + +<P> +He entered, and was moving along the passage, when Anna came out +through one of the parlour doors to meet him, and drawing her arm +through his, said, in a lively tone,— +</P> + +<P> +"Come, George, I want to play for you a favourite piece. I've been +practising it for the last hour." +</P> + +<P> +And she drew him into the parlour, and, taking her seat at the +piano, commenced running her fingers over the keys. Brainard stood +and listened to the music until the piece was finished, trying, but +in vain, to feel an interest in the performance. +</P> + +<P> +"How do you like that?" said the wife, with animation, lifting her +sparkling eyes to the face of her husband, which was serious, in +spite of all he could do to give it a better expression. +</P> + +<P> +"Beautifully performed," replied Brainard. +</P> + +<P> +"And do you really think so?" said Anna, as she arose and leaning on +his arm again, drew him into the next room. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, I do." +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't you think the instrument a little out of tune?" asked Anna. +</P> + +<P> +"No; it struck me as being in better tune than when you played last +evening." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a fine instrument, certainly. I prize it very much." +</P> + +<P> +Brainard sighed faintly. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! How about your four hundred dollars?" said Anna, as if the +thought had just occurred to her. "Did you get the money?" +</P> + +<P> +A change was apparent in the manner of Brainard. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Anna," he replied, with assumed calmness. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you want it badly?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, dear. I have four hundred dollars due in the bank to-day, and +every effort to obtain the sum has failed." +</P> + +<P> +"What if I lend it to you?" said the young wife, looking archly into +his troubled face. +</P> + +<P> +"You!" he exclaimed, quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, me. Would you take it as a very great favour?" +</P> + +<P> +"The greatest you could do me just at this time!" +</P> + +<P> +"Very well; here is the money." +</P> + +<P> +And Anna drew a purse of gold from her pocket, and held it before +his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Anna! What does this mean?" +</P> + +<P> +And Brainard reached his hand to grasp the welcome treasure. But she +drew it away quickly, saying, as she did so,— +</P> + +<P> +"Certain conditions must go with the loan." +</P> + +<P> +"Name them," was promptly answered by the husband, into whose face +the sunshine had already come back. +</P> + +<P> +"One is, that you are not to be angry with me for any thing that I +have done to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"What have you done?" +</P> + +<P> +And Brainard glanced around the room with an awakened suspicion. +</P> + +<P> +"I want your promise first." +</P> + +<P> +"You have it." +</P> + +<P> +"But mind you, I am in earnest," said Anna. +</P> + +<P> +"So am I. Now make your confession." +</P> + +<P> +"I sold the piano." +</P> + +<P> +"What?" +</P> + +<P> +There was an instant change in the expression of Brainard's face. +</P> + +<P> +"Your promise. Remember," said Anna, in a warning voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Sold the piano!" +</P> + +<P> +And he walked into the next room, Anna moving by his side. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I sold it to Mrs. Aiken for four hundred dollars. I had my old +instrument brought over from father's. This is as good a piano as I +want, or you either, I should think, seeing that you perceived no +difference in its tones from the one I parted with. Now, take this +purse, and if you don't call me the right sort of a wife you are a +very strange man—that is all I have to say." +</P> + +<P> +Surprise kept Brainard silent for some moments. He looked at the +piano, then at his wife, and then at the purse of gold, half +doubting whether all were real, or only a pleasant dream. +</P> + +<P> +"You are the right sort of a wife, Anna, and no mistake," said he, +at length, drawing his arm around her neck and kissing her. "You +have done what I had not the courage to do, and, in the act, saved +me from a world of trouble. The truth is, I never should have bought +that piano. A clerk, with a salary of only a thousand dollars, is +not justified in expending four hundred dollars for a piano." +</P> + +<P> +"Nor in having so much costly furniture," said Anna, glancing round +the room. +</P> + +<P> +Brainard sighed, for the thought of two hundred dollars yet to pay +flitted through his mind. +</P> + +<P> +"Nor in paying three hundred dollars for rent," added Anna. +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you say that?" asked Brainard. +</P> + +<P> +"Because it's the truth. The fact is, George, I'm afraid we're in +the wrong road for comfort." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps we are," was the young man's constrained admission. +</P> + +<P> +"Then the quicker we get into the right way the better. Don't you +think so?" +</P> + +<P> +"If we, are wrong, we should try to get right," said Brainard. +</P> + +<P> +"It was wrong to buy that piano. This is your own admission." +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"We are right again in that respect." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, thanks to my dear wife's good resolution and prompt action." +</P> + +<P> +"It was wrong to take so costly a house," said Anna. +</P> + +<P> +"I couldn't find a cheaper one that was genteel and comfortable." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure I wouldn't ask any thing more genteel and comfortable than +Mrs. Tyler's house." +</P> + +<P> +"That pigeon-box!" +</P> + +<P> +Brainard spoke in, a tone of contempt. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, George, how you talk! It's a perfect gem of a house, well +built and well finished in every part, and big enough for a family +twice as large as ours. I think it far more comfortable than this +great barn of a place, and would a thousand times rather live in it. +And then it is cheaper by a hundred and twenty dollars a year." +</P> + +<P> +A hundred and twenty dollars! What a large sum of money. Ah, if he +had a hundred and twenty dollars in addition to the four hundred +received from Anna, how happy he would be! These were the thoughts +that were flitting through the mind of Brainard at the mention of +the amount that could be saved by taking a smaller house. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Anna, perhaps you are right. Oh, dear!" +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you sigh so heavily, George?" asked Mrs. Brainard, looking +at her husband with some surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"Because I can't help it," was frankly answered. +</P> + +<P> +"You've got the money you needed?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not all." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, George! Didn't you say that you had only four hundred dollars +to pay?" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't say only." +</P> + +<P> +"How much more?" +</P> + +<P> +"The fact is, Anna, I have two hundred dollars yet to meet." +</P> + +<P> +"To-day?" +</P> + +<P> +Anna's face became troubled. +</P> + +<P> +"No, not until the day after to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +The young wife's countenance lighted up again. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that all?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, thank Heaven, that is all. But how the payment is to be made, +is more than I can tell." +</P> + +<P> +Dinner was now announced. +</P> + +<P> +"I shall have to turn financier again," said Anna, smiling, as she +drew her arm within that of her husband, and led him away to the +dining-room. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm a little afraid of your financiering," returned her husband, +shaking his head. "You might sell me next as a useless piece of +furniture." +</P> + +<P> +"Now, George, that is too bad," replied Anna, looking hurt. +</P> + +<P> +"I only jested, dear," said Brainard, repairing the little wrong +done to her feelings with a kiss. "Your past efforts at financiering +were admirable, and I only hope your next attempt may be as +successful." +</P> + +<P> +Two days more passed, during which time neither Brainard nor his +wife said any thing to each other about money, although the thoughts +of both were busy for most of the time on that interesting subject. +Silently sat Brainard at the breakfast-table on the morning of the +day when his last note fell due. How was he to meet the payment? Two +hundred dollars! He had not so much as fifty dollars in his +possession, and as to borrowing, that was a vain hope. Must he go to +the holder of the note, and ask a renewal? He shrunk from the +thought, murmuring to himself—"Any thing but that." +</P> + +<P> +As for getting the required sum through Anna, he did not permit +himself to hope very strongly. She had looked thoughtful since their +last interview on the subject, and at times, it seemed to him, +troubled. It was plain that she had been disappointed in any efforts +to get money that she might have made. +</P> + +<P> +"That she, too, should be subject to mortification and painful +humiliation!" said he, as his mind dwelt on the subject. "It is too +bad—too bad!—Oh, to think that my folly should have had this +reaction!" +</P> + +<P> +Anna looked sober as Brainard parted with her after breakfast, and +he thought he saw tears in her eyes. As soon as he was gone she +dressed herself, and taking from a handsome jewel-box the present of +her husband, a gold watch and chain, a bracelet, diamond pin, and +some other articles of the same kind, left the house. +</P> + +<P> +Two hours afterward, as Brainard sat at his desk trying to fix his +mind upon the accounts before him, a note was handed in bearing his +address. He broke the seal, and found that it enclosed one hundred +and seventy dollars, with these few words from Anna: +</P> + +<P> +"This is the best I can do for you, dear husband. Will it be +enough?" +</P> + +<P> +"God bless her!" came half audibly from the lips of Brainard, as he +drew forth his pocket-book, in which were thirty dollars. "Yes, it +will be enough." +</P> + +<P> +"There is no comfort in owing, or in paying after this fashion," +said the young man to himself, as he walked homeward at dinner-time, +with his last note in his pocket. "There will have to be a change." +</P> + +<P> +And there was a change. When next I visited my young friend, I found +him in a smaller house, looking as comfortable and happy as I could +have wished to see him. We talked pleasantly about the errors of the +past, and the trouble which had followed as a natural result. +</P> + +<P> +"There is one thing," said Brainard, during the conversation, +glancing at his wife as he spoke, "that I have not been able to make +out." +</P> + +<P> +"What is that?" asked Mrs. Brainard, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"Where the last one hundred and seventy dollars you gave me came +from." +</P> + +<P> +"Have you missed nothing?" said she, archly. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing," was his reply. +</P> + +<P> +"Been deprived of no comfort?" +</P> + +<P> +"So far from it, I have found a great many new ones." +</P> + +<P> +"And been saved the trouble of winding up and regulating that pretty +eight-day clock for which you gave forty dollars." +</P> + +<P> +Brainard fairly started to his feet as he turned to the mantel, and, +strange to say, missed, for the first time, the handsome timepiece +referred to by his wife. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Anna, is it possible? Surely that hasn't been gone for two +months!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, it has." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, that beats all." +</P> + +<P> +And Brainard resumed his chair. +</P> + +<P> +"You've been just as comfortable," said the excellent young woman. +</P> + +<P> +"But you didn't get a hundred and seventy dollars for the +timepiece?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. Have you lost no other comfort? Think." +</P> + +<P> +Brainard thought, but in vain. Anna glided from the room, and +returned in a few moments with her jewel-box. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you miss any thing?" said she, as she raised the lid and placed +the box in his hands. +</P> + +<P> +"Your watch and chain!" +</P> + +<P> +Anna smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"You did not sell them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Anna! Did you set no value on your husband's gifts?" +</P> + +<P> +There was a slight rebuke in the tone of Brainard. Tears sprang to +Anna's eyes, as she answered—"I valued them less than his +happiness." +</P> + +<P> +Brainard looked at her for a few moments with an expression of deep +tenderness. Then turning to me, he said, in a voice that was +unsteady from emotion—"You shall be my judge. Has she done wrong or +right?" +</P> + +<P> +"Right!" I responded, warmly. "Right! thank Heaven, my friend, for +giving you a true woman for a wife. There is some hope now of your +finding the comfort you sought so vainly in the beginning." +</P> + +<P> +And he has found it—found it in a wise appropriation, of the good +gifts of Providence according to his means. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="children"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHILDREN—A FAMILY SCENE. +</H3> + +<P> +"MOTHER!" +</P> + +<P> +"As I was saying"— +</P> + +<P> +"Mother!" +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Jones wore a white figured satin"— +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! mother!" +</P> + +<P> +"With short sleeves"— +</P> + +<P> +"Mother! mother!" +</P> + +<P> +"Looped up with a small rosebud"— +</P> + +<P> +"I say! mother! mother!" +</P> + +<P> +The child now caught hold of her mother's arm, and shook it +violently, in her effort to gain the attention she desired, while +her voice, which at first was low, had become loud and impatient. +Mrs. Elder, no longer able to continue her account of the manner in +which Miss Jones appeared at a recent ball, turned angrily toward +little Mary, whose importunities had sadly annoyed her, and, seizing +her by the arm, took her to the door and thrust her roughly from the +room, without any inquiry as to what she wanted. The child screamed +for a while at the door, and then went crying up-stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"Do what you will," said Mrs. Elder, fretfully, "you cannot teach +children manners. I've talked to Mary a hundred times about +interrupting me when I'm engaged in conversation with any one." +</P> + +<P> +"It's line upon line and precept upon precept," remarked the +visitor. "Children are children, and we mustn't expect too much from +them." +</P> + +<P> +"But I see other people's children sit down quietly and behave +themselves when there is company." +</P> + +<P> +"All children are not alike," said the visitor. "Some are more +restless and impetuous than others. We have to consult their +dispositions and pay regard thereto, or it will be impossible to +manage them rightly. I find a great difference among my own +children. Some are orderly, and others disorderly. Some have a +strong sense of propriety, and others no sense of propriety at all." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a great responsibility; is it not, Mrs. Peters?" +</P> + +<P> +"Very great." +</P> + +<P> +"It makes me really unhappy. I am sometimes tempted to wish them all +in heaven; and then I would be sure they were well off and well +taken care of. Some people appear to get along with their children +so easy. I don't know how it is. I can't." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Peters could have given her friend a useful hint or two on the +subject of managing children, if she had felt that she dared to do +so. But she knew Mrs. Elder to be exceedingly sensitive, and +therefore she thought it best not to say any thing that might offend +her. +</P> + +<P> +There was a quiet-looking old gentleman in the room where the two +ladies sat conversing. He had a book in his hand, and seemed to be +reading; though, in fact, he was observing all that was said and +done. He had not designed to do this, but the interruption of little +Mary threw his mind off his book, and his thoughts entered a new +element. This person was a brother of Mrs. Elder, and had recently +become domesticated in her family. He was a bachelor. +</P> + +<P> +After the visitor had retired, Mrs. Elder sat down to her +work-table in the same room where she had received her company, and +resumed her sewing operations, which the call had suspended. She had +not been thus engaged long, before Mary came back into the room, +looking sad enough. Instead of going to her mother; she went up to +the old gentleman, and looking into his face with her yet tearful +eyes, said— +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle William?" +</P> + +<P> +"What, dear?" was returned in a kind voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Something sticks my neck. Won't you see what it is?" +</P> + +<P> +Uncle William laid down his book, and, turning down the neck of +Mary's frock, found that the point of a pin was fretting her body. +There was at least a dozen little scratches, and an inflamed spot +the size of a dollar. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor child!" he said, tenderly, as he removed the pin. "There now! +It feels better, doesn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it feels better; thank you, dear uncle!" and Mary put up her +sweet lips and kissed him. The old gentleman was doubly repaid for +his trouble. Mary ran lightly away, and he resumed his book. +</P> + +<P> +In about ten minutes, the child opened the door and came in pulling +the dredging-box, to which she had tied a string, along the floor, +and marking the progress she made by a track of white meal. +</P> + +<P> +"You little torment!" exclaimed the mother, springing up, and +jerking the string and box angrily from Mary's hand. "It is too bad! +you know well enough that you had no business to touch this. Just +see what a condition the floor is in! Oh dear! Shall I never teach +the child any thing?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Elder took the dredging-box out into the kitchen, and gave the +cook a sound scolding for permitting the child to have it. When she +got back, Mary had her work-basket on the floor, rummaging through +it for buttons and spools of cotton. +</P> + +<P> +"Now just see that!" she exclaimed again. "There now!" And little +Mary's ears buzzed for half an hour afterwards from the sound box +she received. +</P> + +<P> +After the child was thrust from the room, Mrs. Elder said, +fretfully, "I'm out of all heart! I never saw such children. They +seem ever bent on doing something wrong. Hark! what's that?" +</P> + +<P> +There was the crash of something falling over head, followed by a +loud scream. +</P> + +<P> +Uncle William and Mrs. Elder both started from the room and ran +up-stairs. Here they found Henry, a boy two years older than Mary, +who was between three and four, lying on the carpet with a bureau +drawer upon him, which he had, while turning topsy-turvy after +something or other, accidentally pulled out upon him. He was more +frightened than hurt, by a great deal. +</P> + +<P> +"Now just look at that!" ejaculated the outraged mother when the +cause of alarm became apparent. "Just look at that, will you? Isn't +it beyond all endurance! Haven't I told you a hundred times not to +go near my drawers, ha? No matter if you'd been half killed! There, +march out of the room as quick as you can go." And she seized Henry +by the arm with a strong grip, and fairly threw him, in her anger, +from the chamber. +</P> + +<P> +While she was yet storming, fretting, and fuming over the drawer, +Uncle William retired from the apartment and, went down-stairs +again. On entering the room he had left but a few minutes before, he +found Mary at her mother's work-basket again, notwithstanding the +box she had received only a short time before for the same fault. +</P> + +<P> +"Mary," said Uncle William to the child, in a calm, earnest, yet +kind voice. +</P> + +<P> +The child took its hands from the basket and came up to her uncle. +</P> + +<P> +"Mary, didn't your mother tell you not to go to her basket?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir," replied Mary, looking steadily into her uncle's face. +</P> + +<P> +"Then why did you go?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know." +</P> + +<P> +"It was very wrong." Uncle William spoke seriously, and the child's +face assumed a serious expression. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you do it any more?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir." Mary shrink close to her uncle, and her reply was in a +whisper. +</P> + +<P> +"Be sure and not forget, Mary. Mother sews with her spools of +cotton, and uses her scissors to make little Mary frocks and aprons, +and if Mary takes any thing out of her work-basket, she can't do her +sewing good. Will you remember?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"Now don't forget." +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"And just see, Mary, how you have soiled the carpet with the +dredging-box! Didn't you know the flour would come out and be +scattered all over the floor?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"But now you know it." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"You won't get the dredging-box any more?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir." +</P> + +<P> +While this conversation was going on, Mrs. Elder came down, still +feeling much excited. After Uncle William had said what he +considered enough to Mary, he took up his book and commenced +reading. The child stood leaning against him for five or ten +minutes, and then ran out of the room. +</P> + +<P> +"How long do you suppose she will remember what you have said?" +remarked Mrs. Elder, with a lightness of tone that showed her +contempt for all such measures of reform. +</P> + +<P> +"Much longer than she will remember your box on the ear," was the +blunt reply. +</P> + +<P> +"I doubt it. Words make no impression on children." +</P> + +<P> +"Harsh words make very little impression, I admit. For these close +up, instead of entering the avenues to the mind. Kind words, and +reasons for things, go a great way even with children. How long did +Mary remember and profit by your sound rating and box on the ear +(still red with the blow) into the bargain? Not over ten minutes; +for when I came down-stairs, she had both hands into your basket +again." +</P> + +<P> +"The little huzzy! It's well for her that I did not catch her at +it!" +</P> + +<P> +"It is well indeed, Sarah, for you would, by your angry and unjust +punishment, have done the little creature a serious injury. Did you +ever explain to her the use of your work-basket and the various +things in it, and make her comprehend how necessary it was to you to +have every thing in order there, just as you placed it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Gracious, William! Do you think I haven't something else to do +besides wasting time in explaining to children the use of every +thing in my work-basket? What good would it do, I wonder?" +</P> + +<P> +"It would do a great deal of good, Sarah, you may rely upon it, and +be a great saving of time into the bargain; for if you made your +children properly comprehend the use of every thing around them, and +how their meddling with certain things was wrong, because it would +incommode you, you would find them far less disposed than now to put +their hands into wrong places. Try it." +</P> + +<P> +"Nonsense! I wonder if I haven't been trying all my life to make +them understand that they were not to meddle with things that didn't +belong to them! And what good has it done?" +</P> + +<P> +"Very little, I must own; for I never saw children who had less +regard to what their mother says than yours have." +</P> + +<P> +This touched Mrs. Elder a little. She didn't mind animadverting upon +the defects of her children, but was ready to stand up in their +defence whenever any one else found fault with them. +</P> + +<P> +"I reckon they are not the worst children in the world," she +replied, rather warmly. +</P> + +<P> +"I should be sorry if they were. But they are not the best either, +by a long way, although naturally as good children as are seen +anywhere. It is your bad management that is spoiling them." +</P> + +<P> +"My management!" +</P> + +<P> +"Frankly, Sarah, I am compelled to affirm that it is. I have been in +your house, now, for three or four months, and must say that I am +surprised that your children are as good as they are. Don't be +angry! Don't be fretted with me as you are with every thing in them +that doesn't please you. I am old enough to hear reason as well as +to talk reason. Let us go back to a point on which I wished to fix +your attention, but from which we digressed. In trying to correct +Mary's habit of rummaging in your work-basket, you boxed her ears, +and stormed at her in a most unmotherly way. Did it do any good? No; +for in ten minutes she was at the same work again. For this I talked +to her kindly, and endeavoured to make her sensible that it was +wrong to disturb your basket." +</P> + +<P> +"And much good it will do!" Mrs. Elder did not feel very amiable. +</P> + +<P> +"We shall see," said Uncle William, in his calm way. "Now I propose +that we both go out of this room, and let Mary come into it, and be +here alone for half an hour. My word for it, she doesn't touch your +work-basket." +</P> + +<P> +"And my word for it, she goes to it the first thing." +</P> + +<P> +"Notwithstanding you boxed her ears for the same fault so recently?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and notwithstanding you reasoned with her, and talked to her +so softly but a few moments since." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well. The experiment is worth making, not to see who is right, +but to see if a gentler mode of government than the one you have +adopted will not be much better for your children. I am sure that it +will." +</P> + +<P> +As proposed, the mother and Uncle William left the room, and Mary +was allowed to go into it and remain there alone for half an hour. +Long before this time had expired, Mrs. Elder's excited feelings had +cooled off, and been succeeded by a more sober and reflective state +of mind. At the end of the proposed period, Uncle William came down, +and joining his sister, said— +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Sarah, let us go and see what Mary has been doing; but before +we enter the room, let me beg of you not to show angry displeasure, +nor to speak a harsh or loud word to Mary, no matter what she may +have been about; for it will do no good, but harm. You have tried it +long enough, and its ill effects call upon you to make a new +experiment." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Elder, who was in a better state than she was half an hour +before, readily agreed to this. They then went together into the +room. As they entered, Mary looked up at them from the floor where +she was, sitting, her face bright with smiles at seeing them. +</P> + +<P> +"You lit"— +</P> + +<P> +Uncle William grasped quickly the hand of his sister to remind her +that she was not to speak harshly to Mary, no matter what she was +doing, and was thus able to check the storm of angry reproof that +was about to break upon the head of the child, who had been up to +the book-case and taken, therefrom two rows of books, with which she +was playing on the floor. +</P> + +<P> +"What are you doing, dear?" asked Uncle William, kindly. +</P> + +<P> +"Building a house," replied the child, the smiles that the sudden +change in the mother's countenance had driven from her face, coming +back and lighting up her beautiful young brow. "See here what a +pretty house I have, uncle! And here is the fence, and these are +trees." +</P> + +<P> +"So it is, a very pretty house," replied the uncle, while the mother +could scarcely repress her indignation at the outrage Mary had +committed upon the book-case. +</P> + +<P> +The uncle glanced toward the table, upon which the work-basket +remained undisturbed. He then sat down, and said—"Come here, love." +</P> + +<P> +Mary got up and ran quickly to him. +</P> + +<P> +"You didn't touch mother's work-basket?" he said. +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir," replied Mary. +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +Mary thought a moment, and then said—"You told me not to do it any +more." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because if I take the cotton and scissors, mother can't make aprons +and frocks for Mary." +</P> + +<P> +"And if you go into her work-basket, you disturb every thing and +make her a great deal of trouble. You won't do it any more?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir." And the child shook her head earnestly. +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't you know that it was also wrong to take the books out of the +book-case? It not only hurts the books, but throws the room and the +book-case into disorder." +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted to build a house," said Mary. +</P> + +<P> +"But books are to read, not to build houses with." +</P> + +<P> +"Won't you ask papa to buy me a box of blocks, like Hetty Green's, +to build houses with?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll buy them for you myself the next time I go out," replied Uncle +William. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, will you?" And Mary clapped her hands joyfully together. +</P> + +<P> +"But you must never disturb the books in the book-case any more." +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir," replied the child, earnestly. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Elder felt rebuked. To hide what was too plainly exhibited in +her countenance, she stooped to the floor and commenced taking up +the books and replacing them in the book-case. +</P> + +<P> +"Now go up into my room, Mary, and wait there until I come. I want +to tell you something." +</P> + +<P> +The child went singing up-stairs as happy as she could be. +</P> + +<P> +"You see, Sarah, that kind words are more effective than harsh names +with children. Mary didn't touch your work-basket." +</P> + +<P> +"But she went to the book-case, which was just as bad. Children must +be in some mischief." +</P> + +<P> +"Not so bad, Sarah; for she had been made to comprehend why it was +wrong to go to your basket, but not so of the book-case." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure I've scolded her about taking down the books fifty times, +and still, every chance she can get, she's at them again." +</P> + +<P> +"You may have scolded her; but scolding a child and making it +comprehend its error are two things. Scolding darkens the mind by +arousing evil passions, instead of enlightening it with clear +perceptions of right and, wrong. <I>No child is ever improved by +scolding, but always injured</I>." +</P> + +<P> +"There are few children who are not injured, then. I should like to +see a mother get along with a parcel of children without scolding +them." +</P> + +<P> +"It is a sad truth, as you say, that there are but few children who +are not injured by scolding. No cause is so active for evil among +children as their mother's impatience, which shows itself from the +first, and acts upon them through the whole period in which their +minds are taking impressions and hardening into permanent forms. +Like you, Sarah, our own mother had but little patience among her +children, and you can look back and remember, as well as I, many +instances in which this impatience led her into hasty and ill-judged +acts and expressions that did us harm rather than good." +</P> + +<P> +"It's an easy thing to talk, William. An easy thing to say—Have +patience." +</P> + +<P> +"I know it is, Sarah; and a very hard thing to compel ourselves to +have patience. But, if a mother's love for her children be not +strong enough to induce her to govern herself for their sakes, who +shall seek their good? Who will make any sacrifice for them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Are you not afraid to trust Mary up in your room?" said Mrs. Elder, +recollecting at the moment that Mary was alone there for a longer +time than she felt to be prudent. +</P> + +<P> +"No. She will not trouble any thing." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd be afraid to trust her. She's a thoughtless, impulsive child, +and might do some damage." +</P> + +<P> +"No danger. She understands perfectly what may be and what may not +be touched in my room, and so do all the children in the house. I +wouldn't be afraid to leave them all there for an hour." +</P> + +<P> +"You'd be afraid afterwards, I guess, if you were to try the +experiment." +</P> + +<P> +"I am willing to try it." +</P> + +<P> +"You are welcome." +</P> + +<P> +"Henry! William!" Uncle William went to the door and called the +children. +</P> + +<P> +Two boys came romping into the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Boys," he said, "Mary is up in my room, and I want you to go up and +stay with her until I come." +</P> + +<P> +Away scampered the little fellows as merry as crickets. +</P> + +<P> +"They'll make sad work in your room, brother; and if they do, you +mustn't blame me for it." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, I shall not blame you, nor scold them, but endeavour to +apply some corrective that will make them think, and determine never +to do so again. However, I am pretty well satisfied that nothing +will be disturbed." +</P> + +<P> +In less than an hour, Mrs. Elder and her brother went up to see what +the children were about. They found them seated on the floor, with +two or three loose packs of plain cards about them, out of which +they were forming various figures, by laying them together upon the +floor. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, children! How could you take your uncle's cards?" said Mrs. +Elder reprovingly. +</P> + +<P> +"He lets us play with them, mother," replied the oldest boy, turning +to his uncle with an appealing look. +</P> + +<P> +"You haven't touched any thing else?" said Uncle William. +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir, nothing else. We found Mary playing with the cards when we +came up, and we've been playing with them ever since. You don't +care, do you, Uncle William?" +</P> + +<P> +"No; for I've told you, you remember, that you might play with the +cards whenever you wanted to." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't we play with them longer, Uncle William?" asked Mary. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, my dear, you can play with them as long as you choose." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Elder and her brother turned away and went down-stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know how it is, William, that they behave themselves so +well in your room, and act like so many young Vandals in every other +part of the house." +</P> + +<P> +"It is plain enough, Sarah," replied her brother. "I never scold +them, and never push them aside when they come to me, no matter what +I'm engaged in doing. I never think a little time taken from other +employments thrown away when devoted to children; and, therefore, I +generally hear what they have to say, let them come to me when they +will. Sometimes I am engaged in such a way that I must not be +interrupted, and then I lock my door. I have explained this to them, +and now the children, when they find my door locked, immediately go +away. On admitting them into my room at first, I was very careful to +tell them that such and such things must on no account be touched, +and explain the reason why; at the same time I gave them free +permission to play with other things that could sustain no serious +injury. Only once or twice has any of them ventured to trespass on +forbidden ground. But, instead of scolding, or even administering a +reprimand, I forbade the one who had done wrong coming to my room +for a certain time. In no case have I had to repeat the +interdiction. If I can thus govern them in my room, I am sure you +can do it in the whole house, if you go the right way about it." +</P> + +<P> +"You say that you always attend to them when they come to you?" said +Mrs. Elder. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I try to do so, no matter how much I am engaged." +</P> + +<P> +"If I were to do that, I would be attending to them all the time. I +couldn't sit a moment with a visitor, nor say three words to +anybody. You saw how it was this morning. The moment I sat down to +talk with Mrs. Peters, Mary came and commenced interrupting me at +every word, until I was forced to put her from the room." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I saw it," replied the brother in a voice that plainly enough +betrayed his disapproval of his sister's conduct in that particular +instance. +</P> + +<P> +"And you think I ought to have neglected my visitor to attend to an +ill-mannered child?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think, when Mary came to you, as she did, that you should have +attended to her at once. If you had done so, you would have relieved +her from pain, and saved yourself and visitor from a serious +annoyance." +</P> + +<P> +"How do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you know what Mary wanted?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it possible! I thought you learned it when she came to me after +Mrs. Peters had left. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I didn't know. What was the matter with her?" +</P> + +<P> +The brother stepped to the door and called for Mary, who presently +came running down-stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you want, uncle?" said she, as she came up to him and +lifted her sparkling blue eyes to his face. +</P> + +<P> +"What were you going to ask your mother to do for you when Mrs. +Peters was here this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"A pin stuck me," replied the child, artlessly. "Don't you know that +you took it out?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, so I did. Let me look at the place," and he turned down Mary's +frock so that her mother could see the scratched and inflamed spot +upon her neck. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor child!" said Mrs. Elder, the tears springing to her eyes as +she stooped down and kissed the wounded place. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you playing with the cards yet, dear?" asked Uncle William. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you want to play more?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"Run along then." And Mary tripped lightly away. +</P> + +<P> +"When the child first spoke to you, Sarah, if you had paused to see +what she wanted, all would have been right in a few minutes. Even if +her request had been frivolous, by attending to it you would have +satisfied her, and been in a much better frame of mind to entertain +your friend." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Elder was silent. There was conviction in Mary's inflamed neck +not to be resisted; and the conviction went to her heart. +</P> + +<P> +"We," said the old gentleman, "who have attained to the age of +reason, expect children, who do not reflect, to act with all the +propriety of men and women, and that too, without mild and correct +instruction as to their duties. Are we not most to blame? They must +regard our times, seasons, and conveniences, and we will attend to +their ever active wants, when our leisure will best permit us to do +so. Is it any wonder, under such a system, that children are +troublesome? Would it not be a greater wonder were they otherwise? +We must first learn self-government and self-denial before we can +rightly govern children. After that, the task will be an easy one." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Elder stayed to hear no more, but, rising abruptly, went up +into her chamber to think. When she appeared in her family, her +countenance was subdued, and when she spoke, her voice was lower and +more earnest. It was remarkable to see how readily her children +minded when she spoke to them, and how affectionately they drew +around her. Uncle William was delighted. In a few days, however, old +habits returned, and then her brother came to her aid, and by timely +uttered counsel gave her new strength. It was wonderful to see what +an improvement three months had made, and at the end of a year no +more loving and orderly household could be found. It took much of +Mrs. Elder's time, and occupied almost constantly her thoughts; but +the result well paid for all. +</P> + +<P> +Thinking that this every-day incident in the history of a friend +would appeal strongly to some mother who has not yet learned to +govern herself, or properly regard the welfare of her children, we +have sketched it hastily, and send it forth in the hope that it may +do good. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="temper"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +LOSING ONE'S TEMPER. +</H3> + +<P> +I WAS sitting in my room one morning, feeling all "out of sorts" +about something or other, when an orphan child, whom I had taken to +raise, came in with a broken tumbler in her hand, and said, while +her young face was pale, and her little lip quivered,— +</P> + +<P> +"See, Mrs. Graham! I went to take this tumbler from the dresser to +get Anna a drink of water, and I let it fall." +</P> + +<P> +I was in a fretful humour before the child came in, and her +appearance, with the broken tumbler in her hand, did not tend to +help me to a better state of mind. She was suffering a good deal of +pain in consequence of the accident, and needed a kind word to quiet +the disturbed beatings of her heart. But she had come to me in an +unfortunate moment. +</P> + +<P> +"You are a careless little girl!" said I, severely, taking the +fragments of glass from her trembling hands. "A very careless little +girl, and I am displeased with you!" +</P> + +<P> +I said no more; but my countenance expressed even stronger rebuke +than my words. The child lingered near me for, a few moments, and +then shrunk away from the room. I was sorry, in a moment, that I had +permitted myself to speak unkindly to the little girl; for there was +no need of my doing so; and, moreover, she had taken my words, as I +could see, deeply to heart. I had made her unhappy without a cause. +The breaking of the tumbler was an accident likely to happen to any +one and the child evidently felt bad enough about what had occurred, +without having my displeasure added thereto. +</P> + +<P> +If I was unhappy before Jane entered my room I was still more +unhappy after she retired. I blamed myself, and pitied the child; +but this did not in the least mend the matter. +</P> + +<P> +In about half an hour, Jane came up very quietly with Willy, my dear +little, curly-haired, angel-face boy, in her arms. He had fallen +asleep, and she had, with her utmost strength, carried him +up-stairs. She did not lift her eyes to mine as she entered, but +went, with her burden, to the low bed that was in the room, where +she laid him tenderly, and then sat down with her face turned partly +away from me, and with a fan kept off the flies and cooled his moist +skin. +</P> + +<P> +Enough of Jane's countenance was visible to enable me to perceive +that its expression was sad. And it was an unkind word from my lips +that had brought this cloud over her young face! +</P> + +<P> +"So much for permitting myself to fall into a fretful mood," said I, +mentally. "In future I must be more watchful over my state of mind. +I have no right to make others suffer from my own unhappy temper." +</P> + +<P> +Jane continued to sit by Willy and fan him; and every now and then I +could hear a very low sigh come up, as if involuntarily, from her +bosom. Faint as the sound was, it smote upon my ear, and added to my +uncomfortable frame of mind. +</P> + +<P> +A friend called, and I went down into the parlour, and sat +conversing there for an hour. But all the while there was a weight +upon my feelings. I tried, but in vain, to be cheerful. I was too +distinctly aware of the fact, that an individual—and that a +motherless little girl—was unhappy through my unkindness; and the +consciousness was like a heavy hand upon my bosom. +</P> + +<P> +"This is all a weakness," I said to myself, after my friend had +left, making an effort to throw off the uncomfortable feeling. But +it was of no avail. Even if the new train of thought, awakened by +conversation with my friend, had lifted me above the state of mind +in which I was when she came, the sight of Jane's sober face, as she +passed me on the stairs, would have depressed my feelings again. +</P> + +<P> +In order both to relieve my own and the child's feelings, I thought +I would refer to the broken tumbler, and tell her not to grieve +herself about it, as its loss was of no consequence whatever. But +this would have been to have made an acknowledgment to her that I +had been in the wrong, and instinctive feeling of pride remonstrated +against that. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah me!" I sighed. "Why did I permit myself to speak so unguardedly? +How small are the cause that sometimes destroy our peace! How much +good or evil is there in a single word!" +</P> + +<P> +Some who read this may think that I was very weak to let a hastily +uttered censure against a careless child trouble me. What are a +child's feelings? +</P> + +<P> +I have been a child; and, as a child, have been blamed severely by +those whom I desired to please, and felt that unkind words fell +heavier and more painfully, sometimes, than blows. I could, +therfore, understand the nature of Jane's feelings, and sympathize +with her to a certain extent. +</P> + +<P> +All through the day, Jane moved about more quietly than usual. When +I spoke to her about any thing—which I did in a kinder voice than I +ordinarily used—she would look into my face with an earnestness +that rebuked me. +</P> + +<P> +Toward evening, I sent her down-stairs for a pitcher of cool water. +She went quickly, and soon returned with the pitcher of water, and a +tumbler, on a waiter. She was coming towards me, evidently using +more than ordinary caution, when her foot tripped against something, +and she stumbled forward. It was in vain that she tried to save the +pitcher. Its balance was lost, and it fell over and was broken to +pieces at my feet, the water dashing upon the skirt of my dress. +</P> + +<P> +The poor child became instantly as pale as ashes, and the frightened +look she gave me I shall not soon forget. She tried to speak, and +say that it was an accident, but her tongue was, paralyzed for the +moment, and she found no utterance. +</P> + +<P> +The lesson I had received in the morning served me for purposes of +self-control now, and I said, instantly, in a mild, voice— +</P> + +<P> +"Never mind, Jane; I know you couldn't help it. I must tack down +that loose edge of the carpet. I came near tripping there myself +to-day. Go and get a floor-cloth and wipe up the water as quickly as +you can, while I gather up the broken pieces." +</P> + +<P> +The colour came back instantly to Jane's face. She gave me one +grateful look, and then ran quickly away, to do as I had directed +her. When she came back, she blamed herself for not having been more +careful, expressed sorrow for the accident, and promised over and +over again that she would be more guarded in future. +</P> + +<P> +The contrast between both of our feelings now and what they were in +the morning, was very great. I felt happier for having acted justly +and with due self-control; and my little girl, though troubled on +account of the accident, had not the extra burden of my displeasure +to bear. +</P> + +<P> +"Better, far better," said I to myself, as I sat and reflected upon +the incidents just related—"better, far better is it, in all our +relations in life, to maintain a calm exterior, and on no account +speak harshly to those who are below us. Angry words make double +wounds. They hurt those whom they are addressed, while they leave a +sting behind them. Above all, should we guard against a moody +temper. Whenever we permit any thing to fret our minds, we are not +in a state to exercise due self-control, and if temptation comes +then we are sure to fall." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="servants"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS +</H3> + +<P> +"OH, dear Mrs. Graham!" said my neighbour Mrs. Jones to me one day, +"what shall I do for good help? I am almost worried out of my +senses. I wish somebody would invent a machine to cook, wash, scrub, +and do housework in general. What a blessing it would be! As for the +whole tribe of flesh and blood domestics, they are not worth their +salt." +</P> + +<P> +"They are all poorly educated," I replied, "and we cannot expect +much of them. Most of them have nearly every thing to learn when +they come into our houses, and are bad scholars into the bargain. +But we must have patience. I find it my only resource." +</P> + +<P> +"Patience!" ejaculated Mrs. Jones, warmly. "It would require more +patience than Job ever possessed to get along with some of them." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet," said I, "we accomplish little or nothing by impatience. +At least such is my experience." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know, ma'am," replied Mrs. Jones. "If you go to being +gentle and easy with them, if you don't follow them up at every +point, you will soon have affairs in a pretty condition! They don't +care a fig for your comfort nor interest—not they! In fact, more +than half of them would, a thousand times, rather make things +disagreeable for you than otherwise." +</P> + +<P> +"I know they are a great trial, sometimes," I answered, not feeling +at liberty to say to my visitor all I thought. "But we must +endeavour to bear it the best we can. That is my rule; and I find, +in the long run, that I get on much better when I repress all +exhibition of annoyance at their carelessness, short-comings, +neglect, or positive misdeeds, than I do when I let them see that I +am annoyed, or exhibit the slightest angry feeling." +</P> + +<P> +Not long after this, we accepted an invitation to take tea with Mr. +and Mrs. Jones, and I then had an opportunity of seeing how she +conducted herself towards her domestics. I was in no way surprised, +afterwards, that she found difficulty in getting along with +servants. +</P> + +<P> +Soon after my husband and myself went in, and while we were sitting +in the parlour, Mrs. Jones had occasion to call a servant. I noticed +that, when she rung the bell, she did so with a quick jerk; and I +could perceive a tone of authority in the ting-a-ling of the bell, +the sound of which was distinctly heard. Nearly two minutes passed +before the servant made her appearance, in which time the bell +received a more vigorous jerk. At last she entered, looking flushed +and hurried. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the reason you did not come when I first rung?" inquired our +lady hostess, in a severe tone. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I—came as quick as I could," replied the girl, with a look of +mortification at being spoken to before strangers. +</P> + +<P> +"No, you didn't! It's your custom to wait until I ring twice. Now +let this be the last time!" +</P> + +<P> +And then, in a low voice, Mrs. Jones gave the direction for which +she had summoned her. +</P> + +<P> +"Such a set!" ejaculated the lady, as the girl left the room. Her +words were intended to reach other ears besides ours; and so they +did. "That girl," she continued, addressing me, "has a habit of +making me ring twice. It really seems to give them pleasure, I +believe, to annoy you. Ah, me! this trouble with servants is a never +ending one. It meets you at every turn." +</P> + +<P> +And, for some time, she animadverted upon her favourite theme—for +such it appeared to be,—until her husband, who was evidently +annoyed, managed to change the subject of discourse. Once or twice +she came back to it before tea-time. +</P> + +<P> +At last the tea bell rung, and we ascended to the dining-room. We +were but fairly seated, when a frown darkened suddenly on the brow +of our hostess, and her hand applied itself nervously to the +table-bell. +</P> + +<P> +The girl who had set the table came up from the kitchen. +</P> + +<P> +"There is no sugar in the bowl," said Mrs. Jones sharply. "I wish +you would learn to set the table while you are about it. I'm sure I +have spoken to you often enough." +</P> + +<P> +As the girl took the sugar-bowl to fill it, the frown left the face +of our hostess, and she turned to me with a bland smile, and asked +whether I used sugar and cream in my tea. I replied in the +affirmative; but did not smile in return, for I could not. I knew +the poor girl's feelings were hurt at being spoken to in such a way +before strangers, and this made me extremely uncomfortable. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you call this cream?" was the angry interrogation of Mrs. Jones, +as the girl returned with the sugar, pushing towards her the +cream-jug, which she had lifted from the table as she spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ma'am," was replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Look at it, and see, then." +</P> + +<P> +"It's the cream," said the girl. +</P> + +<P> +"If that's cream, I never want to see milk. Here! take it away and +bring me the cream." +</P> + +<P> +The girl looked confused and distressed. But she took the cream-jug +and went down-stairs with it. +</P> + +<P> +"That's just the way they always do!" said Mrs. Jones; leaning back +in her chair. "I really get out of all patience, sometimes." +</P> + +<P> +In a little while the girl returned. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the cream, ma'am, as I said. Here's the milk." And she +presented two vessels. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Jones took both from her hands with an ill-natured jerk. Sure +enough, it was as the girl had said. +</P> + +<P> +"Such cream!" fell from the lips of our hostess, as she commenced +pouring it into the cups already filled with tea. +</P> + +<P> +The girl went down-stairs to take back the milk she had brought up, +but she was scarcely at the bottom of the stairs, when the bell was +rung for her. +</P> + +<P> +"Why don't you stay here? What are you running off about?" said Mrs. +Jones, as she came in hurriedly. "You know I want you to wait on the +table." +</P> + +<P> +And so it was during the whole meal. The girl was not once spoken to +except in a tone of anger or offensive authority. +</P> + +<P> +I was no longer surprised that Mrs. Jones found it difficult to keep +good domestics, for no one of feeling can long remain with a woman +who speaks to them always in a tone of command, or who reproves them +in the presence of visitors. +</P> + +<P> +My husband was very severe upon Mrs. Jones after we returned home. +"No lady," said he, "ever spoke in anger or reproof to a domestic +before a visitor or stranger. Nothing more surely evinces a vulgar +and unfeeling mind." +</P> + +<P> +I did not attempt to gainsay his remark, for he expressed but my own +sentiment. So far from uttering a reproof in the presence of a +visitor, I am careful not to speak to my domestics about any fault +even in the presence of my husband. They have a certain respect for +themselves, and a certain delicacy of feeling, which we should +rather encourage than break down. Nearly all domestics are careful +to appear as well as possible in the eyes of the head of the family, +and it hurts them exceedingly to be reproved, or angrily spoken to, +before him. This every woman ought to know by instinct, and those +who do not are just so far deficient in the aggregate of qualities +that go to make up the true lady. +</P> + +<P> +I was by no means surprised to hear from Mrs. Jones, a few days +afterwards, that the "good-for-nothing creature" who waited upon the +table on the occasion of our taking tea at her house, had gone away +and left her. I thought better of the girl for having the spirit to +resent, in this way, the outrage committed upon her feelings. +Domestics have rights and feelings; and if people were to regard +these more, and treat them with greater kindness and consideration +than they do, there would be fewer complaints than there are at +present. This is my opinion, and I must be pardoned for expressing +it. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="change"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HAVEN'T THE CHANGE. +</H3> + +<P> +IT was house-cleaning time, and I had an old coloured woman at work +scrubbing and cleaning paint. +</P> + +<P> +"Polly is going, ma'am," said one of my domestics, as the twilight +began to fall. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well. Tell her that I shall want her tomorrow." +</P> + +<P> +"I think she would like to have her money for to-day's work," said +the girl. +</P> + +<P> +I took out my purse, and found that I had nothing in it less than a +three-dollar bill. +</P> + +<P> +"How much does she have a day?" +</P> + +<P> +"Six shillings, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't the change this evening. Tell her that I'll pay for both +days to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +The girl left the room, and I thought no more of Polly for an hour. +Tea-time had come and passed, when one of my domestics, who was +rather communicative in her habits, said to me: +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think old Polly liked your not paying her this evening." +</P> + +<P> +"She must be very unreasonable, then," said I, without reflection. +"I sent her word that I had no change. How did she expect I could +pay her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Some people are queer, you know, Mrs. Graham," remarked the girl +who had made the communication, more for the pleasure of telling it +than any thing else. +</P> + +<P> +I kept thinking over what the girl had said, until other suggestions +came into my mind. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish I had sent and got a bill changed," said I, as the idea that +Polly might be really in want of money intruded itself. "It would +have been very little trouble." +</P> + +<P> +This was the beginning of a new train of reflections, which did not +make me very happy. To avoid a little trouble, I had sent the poor +old woman away, after a hard day's work, without her money. That she +stood in need of it was evident from the fact that she had asked for +it. +</P> + +<P> +"How very thoughtless in me," said I, as I dwelt longer and longer +on the subject. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter?" inquired my husband, seeing me look serious. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing to be very much troubled at," I replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet you are troubled." +</P> + +<P> +"I am; and cannot help it. You will, perhaps, smile at me, but small +causes sometimes produce much pain. Old Polly has been at work all +day, scrubbing and cleaning. When night came, she asked for her +wages, and I, instead of taking the trouble to get the money for +her, sent her word that I hadn't the change. There was nothing less +than a three-dollar bill in my purse. I didn't reflect that a poor +old woman who has to go out to daily work must need her money as +soon as it is earned. I am very sorry." +</P> + +<P> +My husband did not reply for some time. My words appeared to have +made considerable impression on his mind. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know where Polly lives?" he inquired at length. +</P> + +<P> +"No; but I will ask the girl." And immediately ringing the bell, I +made inquiries as to where Polly lived; but no one in the house +knew. +</P> + +<P> +"It cannot be helped now," said my husband, in a tone of regret. +"But I would be more thoughtful in future. The poor always have need +of their money. Their daily labour rarely does more than supply +their daily wants. I can never forget a circumstance that occurred +when I was a boy. My mother was left a widow when I was but nine +years old—and she was poor. It was by the labour of her hands that +she obtained shelter and food for herself and three little ones. +</P> + +<P> +"Once, I remember the occurrence as if it had taken place yesterday, +we were out of money and food. At breakfast-time our last morsel was +eaten, and we went through the long day without a mouthful of bread. +We all grew very hungry by night; but our mother encouraged us to be +patient a little and a little while longer, until she finished the +garment she was making, when she would take that and some other work +home to a lady who would pay her for the work. Then, she said, we +should have a nice supper. At last the work was finished, and I went +with my mother to help carry it home, for she was weak and sickly, +and even a light burden fatigued her. The lady for whom she had made +the garment was in good circumstances, and had no want unmet that +money could supply. When we came into her presence, she took the +work, and, after glancing at it carelessly, said, +</P> + +<P> +"'It will do very well.' +</P> + +<P> +"My mother lingered; perceiving which, the lady said, rather rudely, +</P> + +<P> +"'You want your money, I suppose. How much does the work come to?' +</P> + +<P> +"'Two dollars,' replied my mother. The lady took out her purse; and, +after looking through a small parcel of bills, said, +</P> + +<P> +"'I haven't the change this evening. Call over anytime, and you +shall have it.' +</P> + +<P> +"And without giving my mother time more earnestly to urge her +request, turned from us and left the room. I never shall forget the +night that followed. My mother's feelings were sensitive and +independent. She could not make known her want. An hour after our +return home, she sat weeping with her children around her, when a +neighbour came in, and, learning our situation, supplied the present +need." +</P> + +<P> +This relation did not make me feel any the more comfortable. +Anxiously I waited, on the next morning, the arrival of Polly. As +soon as she came I sent for her, and, handing her the money she had +earned on the day before, said, +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry I hadn't the change for you last night, Polly. I hope you +didn't want it very badly." +</P> + +<P> +Polly hesitated a little, and then replied, +</P> + +<P> +"Well, ma'am, I did want it very much, or I wouldn't have asked for +it. My poor daughter Hetty is sick, and I wanted to get her +something nice to eat." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm very sorry," said I, with sincere regret. "How is Hetty this +morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"She isn't so well, ma'am. And I feel very bad about her." +</P> + +<P> +"Come up to me in half an hour, Polly," said I. +</P> + +<P> +The old woman went down-stairs. When she appeared again, according +to my desire, I had a basket for her, in which were some wine, +sugar, fruit, and various little matters that I thought her daughter +would relish, and told her to go at once and take them to the sick +girl. Her expressions of gratitude touched my feelings deeply. Never +since have I omitted, under any pretence, to pay the poor their +wages as soon as earned. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="maids"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN. +</H3> + +<P> +"IF that were my child, I'd soon break him of such airs and capers. +Only manage him right, and he'll be as good a boy as can be found +anywhere." +</P> + +<P> +"Very few people appear to have any right government over their +children." +</P> + +<P> +"Very few. Here is my sister; a sensible woman enough, and one would +think the very person to raise, in order and obedience, a family of +eight children. But she doesn't manage them rightly; and, what is +remarkable, is exceedingly sensitive, and won't take kindly the +slightest hint from me on the subject. If I say to her, 'If that +were my child, Sarah, I would do so and so,' she will be almost sure +to retort something about old maids' children." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, that's the way. No matter how defective the family government +of any one may be, she will not allow others to suggest +improvements." +</P> + +<P> +"It would not be so with me. If I had a family of children, I should +not only see their faults, but gladly receive hints from all sides +as to their correction." +</P> + +<P> +"It's the easiest thing in the world to govern children, if you go +the right way about it." +</P> + +<P> +"I know. There is nothing easier. And yet my sister will say, +sometimes, that she is perfectly at a loss what to do. But no +wonder. Like hundreds of others, she has let her children get +completely ahead of her. If they don't break her heart in the end, I +shall be glad." +</P> + +<P> +The immediate cause of this conversation between Miss Martha Spencer +and a maiden lady who had been twenty-five for some ten or fifteen +years—Miss Spencer could not be accused of extensive +juvenility—was the refractory conduct of Mrs. Fleetwood's oldest +child, a boy between six and seven years of age, by which a pleasant +conversation had been interrupted, and the mother obliged to leave +the room for a short period. +</P> + +<P> +"I think, with you," said Miss Jones, the visitor, "that Mrs. +Fleetwood errs very greatly in the management of her children." +</P> + +<P> +"Management! She has no management at all," interrupted Miss +Spencer. +</P> + +<P> +"In not managing her children, then, if you will." +</P> + +<P> +"So I have told her, over and over again, but to no good purpose. +She never receives it kindly. Why, if I had a child, I would never +suffer it to cry after it was six months old. It is the easiest +thing in the world to prevent it. And yet, one of Sarah's children +does little else but fret and cry all the time. She insists upon it +that it can't feel well. And suppose this to be the case?—crying +does it no good, but, in reality, a great deal of harm. If it is +sick, it has made itself so by crying." +</P> + +<P> +"Very likely. I've known many such instances," remarked Miss Jones. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Fleetwood, returning at the moment, checked this train of +conversation. She did not allude to the circumstance that caused her +to leave the room, but endeavoured to withdraw attention from it by +some pleasant remarks calculated to interest the visitor and give +the thoughts of all a new direction. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope you punished Earnest, as he deserved to be," said her +sister, as soon as Miss Jones had retired. "I never saw such a +child!" +</P> + +<P> +"He certainly behaved badly," returned Mrs. Fleetwood, speaking in +an absent manner. +</P> + +<P> +"He behaved outrageously! If I had a child, and he were to act as +Earnest did this morning, I'd teach him a lesson that he would not +forget in a year." +</P> + +<P> +"No doubt your children will be under very good government, Martha," +said Mrs. Fleetwood, a little sarcastically. +</P> + +<P> +"If they are not under better government than yours, I'll send them +all to the House of Refuge," retorted Miss Martha. +</P> + +<P> +The colour on Mrs. Fleetwood's cheeks grew warmer at this remark, +but she thought it best not to reply in a manner likely to provoke a +further insulting retort, and merely said— +</P> + +<P> +"If ever you come to have children of your own, sister, you will be +able to understand, better than you now do, a mother's trials, +doubts, and difficulties. At present, you think you know a great +deal about managing children, but you know nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"I know," replied Martha, "that I could manage my own children a +great deal better than you manage yours." +</P> + +<P> +"If such should prove to be the case, no one will be more rejoiced +at the result than I. But I look, rather, to see your children, if +you should ever become a mother, worse governed than most people's." +</P> + +<P> +"You do?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I do." +</P> + +<P> +"And why, pray?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because my own observation tells me, that those persons who are +most inclined to see defects in family government, and to find fault +with other people's management of their children, are apt to have +the most unruly young scape-graces in their houses to be found +anywhere." +</P> + +<P> +"That's all nonsense. The fact that a person observes and reflects +ought to make that person better qualified to act." +</P> + +<P> +"Right observation and reflection, no doubt, will. But right +observation and reflection in regard to children will make any one +modest and fearful on the subject of their right government, rather +than bold and boastful. Those who, like you, think themselves so +well qualified to manage children, usually make the worst managers." +</P> + +<P> +"It's all very well for you to talk in that way," said Martha, +tossing her head. "But, if I ever have children of my own, I'll show +you whether I have the worst young scape-graces to be found +anywhere." +</P> + +<P> +A low, fretful cry, or rather whine, had been heard from a child +near the door of the room, for some time. It was one of those +annoying, irritating cries, that proceed more from a fretful state +of mind than from any adequate external exciting cause. Martha +paused a moment, and then added— +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think I would suffer a child to cry about the house half of +its time, as Ellen does? No, indeed. I'd soon settle that." +</P> + +<P> +"How would you do it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'd make her stop crying." +</P> + +<P> +"Suppose you couldn't?" +</P> + +<P> +"Couldn't! That's not the way for a mother to talk." +</P> + +<P> +"Excuse me, Martha," said Mrs. Fleetwood, rising. "I would rather +not hear such remarks from you, and now repeat what I have before +said, more than once, that I wish you to leave me free to do what I +think right in my own family; as I undoubtedly will leave you +free, if ever you should have one." +</P> + +<P> +And Mrs. Fleetwood left the room, and taking the little girl who was +crying at the door by the hand, led her up stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"What is the matter, Ellen?" she asked as calmly and as soothingly +as the irritating nature of Ellen's peculiar cry or whine would +permit her. +</P> + +<P> +"Earnest won't play with me," replied the child, still crying. +</P> + +<P> +"Come up into my room, and see if there isn't something pretty there +to play with." +</P> + +<P> +"No—I don't want to," was the crying answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; come." And Mrs. Fleetwood led along the resisting child. +</P> + +<P> +"No—no—no—I don't want to go. I want Earnest to play with me." +</P> + +<P> +"Humph! I'd stop that pretty quick!" remarked Miss Spencer to +herself, as the petulant cry of the child grew louder. "I'd never +allow a child of mine to go on like that." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Fleetwood felt disturbed. But experience had taught her that +whenever she spoke from an irritated state, her words rather +increased than allayed the evil she sought to correct. So she drew +the child along with her, using some force in order to do it, until +she reached her chamber. Her strongest impulse, on being alone with +Ellen, who still continued crying, was to silence her instantly by +the most summary process to which parental authority usually has +resort in such cases; but her mother's heart suggested the better +plan of diverting Ellen's mind, if possible, and thus getting it +into a happier state. In order to do this, she tried various means, +but without effect. The child still cried on, and in a manner so +disturbing to the mother, that she found it almost impossible to +keep from enforcing silence by a stern threat of instant punishment. +But, she kept on, patiently doing what she thought to be right, and +was finally successful in soothing the unhappy child. To her +husband, with whom she was conversing on that evening about the +state into which Ellen had fallen, she said— +</P> + +<P> +"I find it very hard to get along with her. She tires my patience +almost beyond endurance. Sometimes it is impossible to bear with her +crying, and I silence it by punishment. But I observe that if I can +produce a cheerful state by amusing her and getting her interested +in some play or employment, she retains her even temper much longer +than when she has been stopped from crying by threats or punishment. +If I only had patience with her, I could get along better. But it is +so hard to have patience with a fretful, ever crying child." +</P> + +<P> +Of the mental exercises through which Mrs. Fleetwood passed, Miss +Martha Spencer knew nothing. She saw only the real and supposed +errors of her mode of government, and strongly condemned them. Her +doctrine was, in governing children, "implicit obedience must be had +at all hazards." At all hazards, as she generally expressed or +thought it was only meant for extreme or extraordinary cases. +Obedience she believed to be a thing easily obtained by any one who +chose to enforce it. No where, it must be owned, did she see +children as orderly and obedient as she thought they should be. But +that she did not hesitate to set down to the fault of the parents. +Her influence in the family of her sister was not good. To some +extent she destroyed the freedom of Mrs. Fleetwood, and to some +extent disturbed the government of her children by interfering with +it, and attempting to make the little ones do as she thought best. +Her interference was borne about as well as it could be by her +sister, who now and then gave her a "piece of her mind," and in +plain, straight forward terms. Mrs. Fleetwood's usual remark, when +Martha talked about what she would do, if she had children, was a +good humoured one, and generally something after this fashion— +</P> + +<P> +"Old maids' children are the best in the world, I know. They never +cry, are never disobedient, and never act disorderly." +</P> + +<P> +Martha hardly relished this mode of "stopping her off," but it was +generally effective, though sometimes it produced a slight +ebullition. +</P> + +<P> +At last, though the chances in favour of matrimony had become +alarmingly few, Martha was wooed, won, and married to a gentleman +named Laurie, who removed with her to the West. +</P> + +<P> +"There is some prospect at last," Mrs. Fleetwood said to her +husband, with a smile, on the occasion of Martha's wedding, "of +sister's being able to bring into practice her theories in regard to +family government. I only hope the mother's children may be as good +as the old maid's." +</P> + +<P> +"I doubt if they will," remarked the husband, smiling in turn. +</P> + +<P> +"We shall see." +</P> + +<P> +Years passed, and Martha, now Mrs. Laurie, remained in the West. Her +sister frequently heard from her by letter, and every now and then +received the announcement of a fine babe born to the proud mother; +who as often spoke of her resolution to do her duty towards her +children, and especially in the matter of enforcing obedience. She +still talked eloquently of the right modes of domestic government, +and the high and holy duties of parents. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me be blamable in what I may," said she, in one of these +letters, "it shall not be a disregard to the best interests of my +children." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Fleetwood, after reading the passage +to her husband. "But those who really understand the true character +of children, and are sensible of the fact that they inherit from +their parents all the evil and disorderly tendencies not fully +overcome in themselves, feel too deeply the almost hopeless task +they assume, to boast much of what they will do with <I>their</I> +children. A humble, reserved, even trembling consciousness of the +difficulties in the way of the parent, is the most promising state +in which a parent can assume his or her responsibilities. To look +for perfect order and obedience is to look for what never comes. Our +duty is to sow good seed in the minds of our children, and to see +that the ground be kept as free from evil weeds as possible. The +time of fruit is not until reason is developed; and we err in +expecting fruit at an early period. There will come the tender +blade, green and pleasant to the eye, and the firm, upright stalk, +with its leaves and its branches; and flowers, too, after a while, +beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers; but the fruit of all our labour, +of all our careful culture, appears not until reason takes the place +of mere obedience, and the child becomes the man. This view saves me +from many discouragements; and leads me, in calm and patient hope, +to persevere, even though through months, and, I might almost say, +years, little prospect of ultimate fruit becomes apparent. But, good +seed must bring forth good fruit." +</P> + +<P> +After a while, Mrs. Laurie ceased to write in her old strain. She +sometimes spoke of her two eldest sons as fine boys, and of her two +little girls as dear, sweet creatures; but generally omitted saying +any thing more about her family than that all were in good health. +</P> + +<P> +Ten years after Martha's marriage and removal to the West, during +which time the sisters had not met, business required Mr. Fleetwood +to go to Cincinnati, and he proposed that his wife should accompany +him, and pay a visit to Mrs. Laurie, who lived in Springfield, Ohio. +Mrs. Fleetwood readily consented, and they started in the pleasant +month of October. +</P> + +<P> +On arriving at Springfield, they were met by Mr. Laurie at the +stage-office and taken to his house, where the sisters met, +overjoyed at seeing each other once more. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that one of your children?" asked Mrs. Fleetwood, after she had +laid aside her bonnet and riding-dress, and seated herself in her +sister's chamber. A red-faced boy, with pouting lips, and a brow +naturally or artificially so heavy as almost to conceal his organs +of vision, stood holding on to one side of the door, and swinging +himself in and out, all the while eyeing fixedly his aunt, of whose +intended visit he had been advised. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, that is my oldest. Henry, come here and speak to your aunty." +</P> + +<P> +But Henry did not change either attitude, motion, nor expression, +any more than if he had been a swinging automaton. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you hear me?" Mrs. Laurie spoke with a slight change in her +voice and manner. +</P> + +<P> +The boy remained as impassive as before. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, dear, and shake hands with me," said Mrs. Fleetwood. +</P> + +<P> +Henry now put one of his thumbs into his mouth, but neither looked +nor acted less savagely than at first. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Laurie was fretted at this unfavourable exhibition of himself +by her son. She felt as if she would like to get hold of him and box +his ears until they burned for a week. +</P> + +<P> +"Henry! Come here!" She spoke in a tone of command. The door was +quite as much impressed as her son. +</P> + +<P> +"Either come and speak to your aunty, or go down-stairs +immediately." +</P> + +<P> +The boy moved not. +</P> + +<P> +This was too much for Mrs. Laurie, and she started towards him. +Henry let go of the door, and went down-stairs about as quietly as a +horse would have gone. +</P> + +<P> +"He's such a strange, shy boy," said Mrs. Laurie, apologetically. +"But he has a good heart, and you can do almost any thing with him. +How is Earnest? the dear little fellow." +</P> + +<P> +"Earnest is almost a man. He is as large as I am," replied Mrs. +Fleetwood. +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed! I can't think of him as any thing but a bright little boy, +not so large as my Henry." +</P> + +<P> +As she said this, her Henry, who had gone clattering down-stairs a +few moments before, presented himself at the door again, and +commenced swinging himself, and taking observations of the state of +affairs within the chamber. The mother and aunt both concluded +within their own minds that it was as well not to take any notice of +him, and therefore went on with their conversation. Presently a +happy, singing voice was heard upon the stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"There comes my little Martha, the light of the whole house," said +Mrs. Laurie. In a few moments, a sweet-faced child presented +herself, and was about entering, when Henry stepped into the door, +and, putting a foot against each side, blocked up the way. Martha +attempted to pass the rude boy, and, in doing so, fell over one of +his feet, and struck her face a severe blow upon the floor. The loud +scream of the hurt child, the clattering of Henry down-stairs, and +the excited exclamation of the mother as she sprang forward, were +simultaneous. Mr. Laurie and Mr. Fleetwood came running up from the +room below, and arrived in time to see a gush of blood from the nose +of Martha, as her mother raised her from the floor. +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't it too much!" exclaimed Mrs. Laurie. "I think that it is the +worst boy I ever saw in my life!" +</P> + +<P> +The application of a little cold water soon staunched the flow of +blood, and a few kind words soothed the feelings of the child, who +sat in her mother's lap, and answered her aunt when she spoke to +her, like a little lady, as she was. +</P> + +<P> +"Where are the rest of your children?" asked Mrs. Fleetwood. The +gentlemen were now seated with the ladies. +</P> + +<P> +"You've had a pretty fair sample of them," replied Mr. Laurie, +smiling good humouredly, "and may as well be content with that for +the present. To say the best of them, they are about as wild a set +of young scape-graces as ever made each other miserable, and their +parents, too, sometimes." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Mr. Laurie!" exclaimed his wife, who had not forgotten her old +opinions, freely expressed, about the ease with which children could +be governed. "I'm sure you needn't say that. I think our children +quite as good as other people's, and a little better than some I +could name." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, perhaps they are, and nothing to brag of at that," replied +Mr. Laurie. "Children are children, and you can't make any thing +more out of them." +</P> + +<P> +"But children should be made orderly and obedient," said Mrs. +Laurie, with some dignity of expression. +</P> + +<P> +"If they can," pleasantly returned the father. "So far, we, at +least, have not succeeded to our wishes in this respect. As to order +and obedience, they seem to be cardinal sins rather than cardinal +virtues, at present. But I hope better things after a while." +</P> + +<P> +As this was said, some one was heard tumbling rather than walking +up-stairs, and, in a moment after, in bolted a boy about seven years +old, crying out— +</P> + +<P> +"Hen' says Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood have come! Have they, mom?" +</P> + +<P> +The boy stopped short on perceiving that strangers were present. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, my son, your Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood are here," said Mr. +Fleetwood, reaching out his hand to the little fellow. Remembering +Martha's former rigid notions about the government of children, he +felt so much amused by what he saw, that he could hardly help +laughing out immoderately. "Come here," he added, "and let me talk +to you." +</P> + +<P> +The boy went without hesitation to his uncle, who took him by the +hand and said, with a half wicked glance at the mother, yet with a +broad good humoured smile upon his face, +</P> + +<P> +"That must be a very knowing hen of yours. I should like to have +some of her chickens." +</P> + +<P> +"What hen?" asked the boy, with a serious air. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, the hen that told you we were here." +</P> + +<P> +"No hen told me that." The boy looked mystified. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I thought you said Hen' told you so." +</P> + +<P> +"No, it was Henry." +</P> + +<P> +"Say, no <I>sir</I>, my son." Mrs. Laurie's face was not pale, certainly, +as she said this. +</P> + +<P> +The boy did not think it worth while to repeat the formality. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! it was your brother Henry," replied Mr. Fleetwood, with +affected seriousness. "I thought that must have been a very knowing +hen." The boy, and his sister who had recovered from the pain of her +fall, laughed heartily. "Now tell me your name?" +</P> + +<P> +"John." +</P> + +<P> +"Say John, <I>sir</I>. Where are your manners?" spoke up the mother, who +remembered that, with all her sister's imperfect management of her +children, she had succeeded in teaching them to be very respectful +in their replies to older persons, and that Earnest, when she last +saw him, was a little gentleman in his manners when amy one spoke to +him. +</P> + +<P> +"Mo-<I>ther</I>!" came now ringing up the stairs, in a loud, screeching +little voice. "Mo-<I>ther</I>! Hen' won't let me come up." +</P> + +<P> +"I declare! That boy is too bad! He's a perfect torment!" said Mrs. +Laurie, fretfully. "I'm out of all heart with him." +</P> + +<P> +The father stepped to the head of the stairs, and spoke rather +sternly to the rebellious Henry. Little feet, were soon heard +pattering up, and the youngest of the young hopefuls made her +appearance, and, soon after, Henry pushed his really repulsive face +into the door and commenced grimacing at the other children, thereby +succeeding in what he desired to do, viz., starting little Maggy, +the youngest, into a whining, fretful cry, because "Hen' was making +faces" at her. This cry, once commenced, was never known to end +without the application of something more decided in its effects +than words. It was in vain that the mother used every persuasive, +diverting and soothing means in her power: the crying, loud enough +to drown all conversation, continued, until, taking the child up +hurriedly in her arms, she bore her into another room, where she +applied some pretty severe silencing measures, which had, however, +the contrary effect to that desired. The child cried on, but louder +than before. For nearly ten minutes, she sought by scolding and +whipping to silence her, but all was in vain. It is doubtful, after +the means used to enforce silence, whether the child could have +stopped if she had tried. At last, the mother locked her in a +closet, and came, with a flushed face and mortified feelings, back +to the room from which she had retired with Maggy. +</P> + +<P> +The moment Mrs. Laurie left, her husband, with a word and a look, +brought the three children into order and quietness. Henry was told, +in a low voice, and in a tone of authority, that he never thought of +questioning, to go up into the garret and remain there until he sent +for him. The boy retired without the slightest hesitation. +</P> + +<P> +When Mrs. Laurie returned, Mr. Fleetwood, who was a man of frank, +free, and pleasant manners, could not resist the temptation he felt +to remind her of the past; he, therefore, said, laughingly, +</P> + +<P> +"You have doubtless found out, by this time, Martha, that old maids' +children are the best." +</P> + +<P> +This sally had just the effect he designed it to have. It was an +apology for the children, as it classed them with other real +children, in contradistinction to the imaginary offspring of the +unmarried, that are known by every one to be faultless specimens of +juvenility. +</P> + +<P> +"Come! That is too bad, Mr. Fleetwood," replied Mrs. Laurie, feeling +an immediate sense of relief. "But, I own to the error I committed +before marriage. It seemed to me the easiest thing in the world to +manage children, when I thought about it, and saw where parents +erred, or appeared to err, in their modes of government. I did not +then know what was <I>in</I> children. All their perverseness I laid to +the account of bad management. Alas! I have had some sad experiences +in regard to my error. Still, I cannot but own that children are +made worse by injudicious treatment, and also, that mine ought to be +a great deal better than they are." +</P> + +<P> +"Like the rest of us," returned Mr. Fleetwood, "you have no doubt +discovered, that it is one thing to <I>think</I> about the government of +children, and another thing to be in the midst of their disturbing +sphere, and yet act as if you did not feel it. Theory and practice +are two things. It seems, when we think coolly, that nothing can be +easier than to cause the one exactly to correspond to the other. But +whoever makes the trial, especially where the right government of +children is concerned, will find it a most difficult matter. What +makes the government of their children so hard a thing for parents, +is the fact that the evils of the children have been inherited from +them, and therefore the reaction of these evils upon themselves is +the more disturbing. We haven't as much patience with the faults of +our own children, often, as other people have. They fret and annoy +us, and take away our ability to speak in a proper tone and act with +becoming dignity toward them, and thus destroy their respect for +us." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing can be truer," said Mrs. Laurie. "I stand rebuked. I am +self-condemned, every day, on this very account. I used to think +that your government and that of Sarah's over your children very +defective. But it was far better than the government that I have +been able to exercise over mine. Ah me!" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't sigh over the matter so terribly, Martha," spoke up the +husband. "We shall get them right in the end. Never give up the +ship, is my motto in this and every thing else. But I wouldn't have +our brother and sister here think for a moment that the scenes they +have witnessed are enacted every day. Their visit is an occasion of +some excitement to our young folks, and they had to show off a +little. They will cool down again, and we shall get on pleasantly +enough." +</P> + +<P> +"That is all very true," said Mrs. Laurie, more cheerfully. "I never +saw them act quite so outrageously before, when any one came in. +There is much good in them, and you will see it before you leave +us." +</P> + +<P> +"No doubt in the world of that," replied Mr. Fleetwood; "there is +good in all children, and it is our duty to exercise great +forbearance towards their evils, and be careful lest, by what we do +or say, we strengthen, rather than break them." +</P> + +<P> +And the good that was in Mrs. Laurie's children was clearly seen by +Mr. and Mrs. Fleetwood during their stay; but, that good was, alas! +not strengthened as it might have been, nor were the evils they +inherited kept quiescent, as they would to a great extent have +remained, had the mother been more patient and forbearing—had her +practice been as good as her theory. +</P> + +<P> +It is easy for us to see how others ought to act toward their +children, but very hard for us to act right toward our own. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="mother"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE MOTHER AND BOY. +</H3> + +<P> +"TOM, let that alone!" exclaimed a mother, petulantly, to a boy +seven years old, who was playing with a tassel that hung from one of +the window-blinds, to the imminent danger of its destruction. +</P> + +<P> +The boy did not seem to hear, but kept on fingering the tassel. +</P> + +<P> +"Let that be, I tell you! Must I speak a hundred times? Why don't +you mind at once?" +</P> + +<P> +The child slowly relinquished his hold of the tassel, and commenced +running his hand up and down the venitian blind. +</P> + +<P> +"There! there! Do for gracious sake let them blinds alone. Go 'way +from the window this moment, and try and keep your hands off of +things. I declare! you are the most trying child I ever saw." +</P> + +<P> +Tom left the window and threw himself at full length into the +cradle, where he commenced rocking himself with a force and rapidity +that made every thing crack again. +</P> + +<P> +"Get out of that cradle! What do you mean? The child really seems +possessed!" And the mother caught him by the arm and jerked him from +the cradle. +</P> + +<P> +Tom said nothing, but, with the most imperturbable air in the world, +walked twice around the room, and then pushing a chair up before the +dressing-bureau, took therefrom a bottle of hair lustral, and, +pouring the palm of his little hand full of the liquid, commenced +rubbing it upon his head. Twice had this operation been performed, +and Tom was pulling open a drawer to get the hair-brush, when the +odour of the oily compound reached the nostrils of the lad's mother, +who was sitting with her back toward him. Turning quickly, she saw +what was going on. +</P> + +<P> +"You!" fell angrily from her lips, as she dropped the baby in the +cradle. "Isn't it too much!" she continued, as she swept across the +room to where Tom was standing before the bureau-dressing-glass. +</P> + +<P> +"There, sir!" and the child's ear rang with the box he received. +"There, sir!" and the box was repeated. "Haven't I told you a +hundred times not to touch that hair-oil? Just see what a spot of +grease you've made on the carpet! Look at your hands!" +</P> + +<P> +Tom looked at his hands, and, seeing them full of oil, clapped them +quickly down upon his jacket, and tried to rub them clean. +</P> + +<P> +"There! stop! mercy! Now see your new jacket that you put on this +morning. Grease from top to bottom! Isn't it too bad! I am in +despair!" And the mother let her hands fall by her side, and her +body drop into a chair. +</P> + +<P> +"It's no use to try," she continued; "I'll give up. Just see that +jacket! it's totally ruined; and that carpet, too. Was there ever +such a trying boy! Go down-stairs this instant, and tell Jane to +come up here." +</P> + +<P> +Tom had reason to know that his mother was not in a mood to be +trifled with, so he went off briskly and called Jane, who was +directed to get some fuller's earth and put upon the carpet where +oil had been spilled. +</P> + +<P> +Not at all liking the atmosphere of his mother's room, Tom, being +once in the kitchen, felt no inclination to return. His first work +there, after delivering his message to Jane, was to commence turning +the coffee-mill. +</P> + +<P> +"Tommy," said the cook, mildly, yet firmly, "you know I've told you +that it was wrong to touch the coffee-mill. See here, on the floor, +where you have scattered the coffee about, and now I must get a +broom and sweep it up. If you do so, I can't let you come down +here." +</P> + +<P> +The boy stood and looked at the cook seriously, while she got the +broom and swept up the dirt he had made. +</P> + +<P> +"It's all clean again now," said the cook, pleasantly. "And you +won't do so any more, will you?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, I won't touch the coffee-mill." And, as Tom said this, he +sidled up to the knife-box that stood upon the dresser, and made a +dive into it with his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, no, no, Tommy! that won't do, either," said the cook. "The +knives have all been cleaned, and they are to go on the table to eat +with." +</P> + +<P> +"Then what can I play with, Margaret?" asked the child, as he left +the dresser. "I want something to play with." +</P> + +<P> +The cook thought a moment, and then went to a closet and brought out +a little basket filled with clothes-pins. As she held them in her +hand, she said—"Tommy, if you will be careful not to break any of +these, nor scatter them about, you may have them to play with. But +remember, now, that as soon as you begin to throw them around the +room, I will put them up again." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, I won't throw them about," said the little fellow, with +brightening eyes, as he reached out for the basket of pins. +</P> + +<P> +In a little while he had a circle formed on the table, which he +called his fort; and inside of this he had men, cannon, +sentry-boxes, and other things that were suggested to his fancy. +</P> + +<P> +"Where's Thomas?" asked his mother, about the time he had become +fairly interested in his fort. +</P> + +<P> +"I left him down in the kitchen," replied Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"Go down and tell him to come up here instantly." +</P> + +<P> +Down went Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"Come along up-stairs to your mother," said she. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I won't," replied the boy. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, mister! You can do as you like; but your mother sent for +you." +</P> + +<P> +"Tell mother I am playing here so good. I'm not in any mischief. Am +I, Margaret?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Tommy; but your mother has sent for you, and you had better +go." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want to." +</P> + +<P> +"Just as you like," said Jane, indifferently, as she left the +kitchen and went up-stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"Where's Thomas?" was the question with which she was met on +returning to the chamber. +</P> + +<P> +"He won't come, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"Go and tell him that if he doesn't come up to me instantly, I will +put on his night-clothes and shut him up in the closet." +</P> + +<P> +The threat of the closet was generally uttered ten times where it +was executed once; it made but little impression upon the child, who +was all absorbed in his fort. +</P> + +<P> +Jane returned. In a few moments afterward, the quick, angry voice of +the mother was heard ringing down the stairway. +</P> + +<P> +"You, Tom! come up here this instant." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not troubling any thing, mother." +</P> + +<P> +"Come up, I say!" +</P> + +<P> +"Margaret says I may play with the clothes-pins. I'm only building a +fort with them." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you hear me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mother!" +</P> + +<P> +"Tom! if you don't come to me this instant, I'll almost skin you. +Margaret! take them clothes-pins away. Pretty playthings, indeed, +for you to give a boy like him! No wonder I have to get a dozen new +ones every two or three months." +</P> + +<P> +Margaret now spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Tommy, you must go up to your mother." +</P> + +<P> +She now took the clothes-pins and commenced putting them into the +basket where they belonged. Her words and action had a more instant +effect than all the mother's storm of passion. The boy left the +kitchen in tears, and went slowly up-stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"Why didn't you come when I called you? Say!" +</P> + +<P> +The mother seized her little boy by the arm the moment he came in +reach of her, and dragged rather than led him up-stairs, uttering +such exclamations as these by the way: +</P> + +<P> +"I never saw such a child! You might as well talk to the wind! I'm +in despair! I'll give up! Humph! clothes-pins, indeed! Pretty +playthings to give a child! Every thing goes to rack and ruin! +There!" +</P> + +<P> +And, as the last word was uttered, Tommy was thrust into his +mother's room with a force that nearly threw him prostrate. +</P> + +<P> +"Now take off them clothes, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"What for, mother? I haven't done any thing! I didn't hurt the +clothes-pins; Margaret said I might play with them." +</P> + +<P> +"D'ye hear? take off them clothes, I say!" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't do any thing, mother." +</P> + +<P> +"A word more, and I'll box your ears until they ring for a month. +Take off them clothes, I say! I'll teach you to come when I send for +you! I'll let you know whether I am to be minded or not!" +</P> + +<P> +Tommy slowly disrobed himself, while his mother, fretted to the +point of resolution, eyed him with unrelenting aspect. The jacket +and trousers were removed, and his night-clothes put on in their +stead, Tommy all the while protesting tearfully that he had done +nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you hush?" was all the satisfaction he received for his +protestations. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Jane, take him up-stairs to bed; he's got to lie there all the +afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +It was then four, and the sun did not set until near eight o'clock. +Up-stairs the poor child had to go, and then his mother found some +quiet. Her babe slept soundly in the cradle, undisturbed by Tommy's +racket, and she enjoyed a new novel to the extent of almost entirely +forgetting her lonely boy shut up in the chamber above. +</P> + +<P> +"Where's Tommy?" asked a friend, who dropped in about six o'clock. +</P> + +<P> +"In bed," said the mother, with a sigh. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter? Is he sick?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no. I almost wish he were." +</P> + +<P> +"What a strange wish! Why do you wish so?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, because he is like a little angel when he is sick—as good as +he can be. I had to send him to bed as a punishment for +disobedience. He is a hard child to manage; I think I never saw one +just like him; but, you know, obedience is every thing. It is our +duty to require a strict regard to this in our children." +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly. If they do not obey their parents as children, they will +not obey the laws as men." +</P> + +<P> +"That is precisely the view I take; and I make it a point to require +implicit obedience in my boy. This is my duty as a parent; but I +find it hard work." +</P> + +<P> +"It is hard, doubtless. Still we must persevere, and, in patience, +possessing our souls." +</P> + +<P> +"To be patient with a boy like mine is a hard task. Sometimes I feel +as if I should go wild." said the mother. +</P> + +<P> +"But, under the influence of such a feeling," remarked the friend, +"what we say makes little or no impression. A calmly uttered word, +in which there is an expression of interest in and sympathy for the +child, does more than the sternest commands. This I have long since +discovered. I never scold my children; scolding does no good, but +harm. My oldest boy is restless, excitable, and impulsive. If I were +not to provide him with the means of employing himself, or in other +ways divert him, his hands would be on every thing in the house, and +both he and I made unhappy." +</P> + +<P> +"But how can you interest him?" +</P> + +<P> +"In various ways. Sometimes I read to him; sometimes I set him to +doing things by way of assisting me. I take him out when I can, and +let him go with the girls when I send them on errands. I provide him +with playthings that are suited to his age. In a word, I try to keep +him in my mind; and, therefore, find it not very difficult to meet +his varying states. I never thrust him aside, and say I am too busy +to attend to him, when he comes with a request. If I cannot grant +it, I try not to say 'no,' for that word comes too coldly upon the +eager desire of an ardent-minded boy." +</P> + +<P> +"But how can you help saying 'no,' if the request is one you cannot +grant?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sometimes I ask if something else will not do as well; and +sometimes I endeavour to create a new interest in his mind. There +are various ways in which it may be done, that readily suggest +themselves to those desirous for the good of their children. It is +affection that inspires thought. The love of children always brings +a quick intelligence touching their good." +</P> + +<P> +Much more was said, not needful here to repeat. When the friend went +away, Tommy's mother, whose heart convicted her of wrong to her +little boy, went up to the room where she had sent him to spend four +or five lonely hours as a punishment for what was, in reality, her +own fault, and not his. Three hours of the weary time had already +passed. She did not remember to have heard a sound from him, since +she drove him away with angry words. In fact, she had been too +deeply interested in the new book she was reading, to have heard any +noise that was not of an extraordinary character. +</P> + +<P> +At the door of the chamber she stood and listened for a moment. All +was silent within. The mother's heart beat with a heavy motion. On +entering, she found the order of the room undisturbed; not even a +chair was out of place. Tommy was asleep on the bed. As his mother +bent over him, she saw that tears were upon his cheeks and eyelids, +and that the pillow was wet. A choking sigh struggled up from her +bosom; she felt a rebuking consciousness of having wronged her +child. She laid her hand upon his red cheek, but drew it back +instantly; it was hot with fever. She caught up his hand; it was +also in a burning glow. Alarm took the place of grief for having +wronged her boy. She tried to awaken him, but he only moaned and +muttered. The excitement had brought on a fever. +</P> + +<P> +When the father came home and laid his hand upon the hot cheek of +his sleeping boy, he uttered an exclamation of alarm, and started +off instantly for a physician. All night the wretched mother watched +by her sick child, unable, from fear and self-reproaches, to sleep. +When the morning broke, and Thomas looked up into her face with a +gleam of trusting affection, his fever was gone and his pulse was +calm. The mother laid her cheek thankfully against that of her boy, +and prayed to Heaven for strength to bear with him, and wisdom to +guide her feet aright; and as she did so, in the silence of her +overflowing heart, the lad drew his arms around her neck, and, +kissing her, said—"Mother, I do love you!" +</P> + +<P> +That tears came gushing over the mother's face is no cause of +wonder, nor that she returned, half wildly, the embrace and kiss of +her child. +</P> + +<P> +Let us hope that, in her future conduct towards her ardent, restless +boy, she may be able to control herself; for then she will not find +it hard to bring him under subjection to what is right. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="party"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. +</H3> + +<P> +CHRISTMAS had come round again—merry old Christmas, with his +smiling face and wealth of good cheer; and every preparation had +been made by the Arlingtons for their annual Christmas party, which +was always a gay time for the young friends of the family. +</P> + +<P> +Some hundreds of miles away, in a quiet New-England village, lived +Mr. Archer, an uncle of Mr. Arlington. He was a good man; but being +a minister of the old school, and well advanced in years, he was +strongly prejudiced against all "fashionable follies," as he called +nearly every form of social recreation. Life was, in his eyes, too +solemn a thing to be wasted in any kind of trifling. In preaching +and praying, in pious meditation, and in going about to do good, +much of his time was passed; and another portion of it was spent in +reflecting upon and mourning over the thoughtless follies of the +world. He had no time for pleasure-taking; no heart to smile at the +passing foibles or merry humours of his fellow-men. +</P> + +<P> +Such was the Rev. Mr. Jason Archer—a good man, but with his mind +sadly warped through early prejudices, long confirmed. For years he +had talked of a journey to the city where his niece, to whom he was +much attached, resided. This purpose was finally carried out. It was +the day before Christmas, when Mrs. Arlington received a letter from +the old gentleman, announcing the fact that she might expect to see +him in a few hours, as he was about starting to pay her and her +family the long-intended visit. +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle Archer will be here to-morrow," said Mrs. Arlington to her +husband, as soon as she met him after receiving her letter. +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed! And so the good old gentleman has made a move at last?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; he's going to eat his Christmas dinner with us, he says." +</P> + +<P> +"So much the better. The pleasure of meeting him will increase the +joy of the occasion." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not so sure of that," replied Mrs. Arlington, looking a little +serious. "It would have been more pleasant to have received this +visit at almost any other time in the year." +</P> + +<P> +"Why so?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know his strong prejudices?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, against dancing, and all that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; he thinks it a sin to dance." +</P> + +<P> +"Though I do not." +</P> + +<P> +"No; but it will take away half my pleasure to see him grieved at +any thing that takes place in my house." +</P> + +<P> +"He'll not be so weak as that." +</P> + +<P> +"He thinks it sin, and will be sadly pained at its occurrence. Is it +not possible to omit dancing for once?" +</P> + +<P> +"At the party to-morrow night?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Arlington shook his head, as he replied— +</P> + +<P> +"Don't think of such a thing. We will receive him with true +kindness, because we feel it towards the good old man. But we must +not cease to do what we know to be right, thus disappointing and +marring the pleasure of many, out of deference to a mere prejudice +of education in a single person. When we go to see him, we do not +expect that any change will be made out of deference to our +prejudices or peculiar opinions; and when he comes to see us, he +must be willing to tolerate what takes place in our family, even if +it does not meet his full approval. No, no; let us not think for a +moment of any change in affairs on this account. Uncle Archer hasn't +been present at a gay party nor seen dancing for almost half a +century. It may do him good to witness it now. At any rate, I feel +curious to see the experiment tried." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Arlington still argued for a little yielding in favour of the +good parson's prejudices, but her husband would not listen to such a +thing for a moment. Every thing, he said, must go on as usual. +</P> + +<P> +"A guest who comes into a family," he remarked, "should always +conform himself to the family order; then there is no reaction upon +him, and all are comfortable and happy. He is not felt as a thing +foreign and incongruous, but as homogeneous. To break up the usual +order, and to bend all to meet his personal prejudices and +peculiarities, is only to so disturb the family sphere as to make it +actually repellent. He is then felt as an unassimilated foreign +body, and all secretly desire his removal." +</P> + +<P> +"But something is due to old age!" urged Mrs. Arlington. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; much. But, if age have not softened a man's prejudices against +a good thing in itself, I doubt very much if a deference to his +prejudice, such as you propose, will in the least benefit him. +Better let him come in contact with a happy circle, exhilarated by +music and dancing; and the chances are, that his heart will melt in +the scene rather than grow colder and harder. The fact is, as I +think of it more and more, the better pleased am I that Uncle Archer +is coming just at this time." +</P> + +<P> +But Mrs. Arlington felt troubled about the matter. Early on +Christmas morning, the old gentleman arrived, and was welcomed with +sincere affection by every member of the family. Mr. and Mrs. +Arlington had a daughter, named Grace, who was just entering her +eighteenth year. She was gentle and affectionate in disposition, and +drew to the side of Uncle Archer in a way that touched the old man's +feelings. He had not seen her before this, since she was a little +girl; and now, he could not keep his eyes off of her as she sat by +him, or moved about the room in his presence. +</P> + +<P> +"What a dear girl that is!" was his remark to her mother, many times +through the day. +</P> + +<P> +"She's a good girl," would simply reply Mrs. Arlington, speaking +almost without thought. Grace was a good girl; her mother felt this, +and from her heart her lips found utterance. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed, all through the day, that Grace could not do enough for +the old man's comfort. Once she drew him into her room, as he was +passing her door, to show him some pictures that she had painted. As +he sat looking at them, he noticed a small, handsomely bound Bible +on her table. Taking it up, he said— +</P> + +<P> +"Do you read this, Grace?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes," she replied, "every day." And there was such a light of +goodness in her eyes, as she looked up into his face, that Mr. +Archer felt, for a moment or two, as if the countenance of an angel +was before him. +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you read it?" he continued after a pause. +</P> + +<P> +"It teaches us the way to heaven," said Grace. +</P> + +<P> +"And you are trying to live for heaven?" +</P> + +<P> +"I try to shun all evil as sin. Can I do more?" +</P> + +<P> +All the minister's creeds, and doctrines, and confessions of faith, +which he had ever considered the foundations upon which Christian +life was to be built, seemed, for a moment or two, useless lumber +before the simple creed of this loving, pure-hearted maiden. To seek +to disturb this state of innocence and obedience by moody polemics, +he felt, instinctively, to be wrong. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps not," was his half abstracted reply; "perhaps not. Yes, +yes; shun what is evil, and the Lord will adjoin the good." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes; she <I>is</I> a good girl, as her mother says," was frequently +repeated by Uncle Archer during the day, when he would think of +Grace. +</P> + +<P> +Evening came, and young and old began to gather in the parlours. The +minister was introduced to one and another, as they arrived, and was +much gratified with the respect and attention shown to him by all. +Grace soon drew around him three or four of her young friends, who +listened to what he had to say with an interest that gratified his +feelings. Nothing had been said to Grace of her uncle's prejudice +against dancing; she was, therefore, no little surprised to see the +sudden change in his manner, when she said to a young lady in the +group around him— +</P> + +<P> +"Come! you must play some cotillions for us. We're going to have a +dance." +</P> + +<P> +After going with the young lady to the piano, and opening it for +her, Grace went back to her uncle, whose face she found deeply +clouded. +</P> + +<P> +"A'n't you well, uncle?" she asked, affectionately. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes, child, I am well enough in body," was replied. +</P> + +<P> +"But something troubles you, uncle—what is it?" +</P> + +<P> +By this time a number of couples were on the floor, and at the +moment, a young man came up to Grace, and said— +</P> + +<P> +"Shall I have the pleasure of dancing with you this evening?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not in the first set," replied Grace; "but I will consider myself +engaged for the second, unless you can find a more agreeable +partner." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you dance, then?" asked Uncle Arthur, gravely, after the young +man had turned away. +</P> + +<P> +"Dance?" Grace was in doubt whether she had clearly understood him. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, dear." +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly I do, uncle. You don't think there is harm in dancing?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do, my child. And, I am sure that, after what you said about +reading your Bible and trying to live for heaven, your admission +greatly surprises me. Religion and dancing! How can they have an +affinity?" +</P> + +<P> +"Good and evil can have no affinity," said Grace, in reply to this +remark. "Evil, I have always understood to be in a purpose to do +wrong. Now, I can dance with a good purpose; and, surely, then, +dancing cannot be evil to me." +</P> + +<P> +"Dance with a good purpose! How can you do that, my dear?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have often danced with the sole end of contributing my share to +the general enjoyment of a company." +</P> + +<P> +"Strange enjoyment!" sighed the old parson. +</P> + +<P> +"The timing of steps, and the orderly movement of the body in +concert with musical harmonies, often affects the mind with +exquisite delight, uncle. I have enjoyed this over and over again, +and have felt better and happier afterwards." +</P> + +<P> +"Child! child!" replied the old man; "how it grieves me to hear you +say this." +</P> + +<P> +"If there is sin in dancing, uncle," said Grace, seriously, "tell me +wherein it lies. Look at the countenances of those now on the floor; +do they express evil or good affection?—here, as I have been +taught, lies the sin." +</P> + +<P> +"It is a foolish waste of time," returned the old man; "a foolish +waste of time; and it is an evil thing to waste the precious time +that God has given to us." +</P> + +<P> +"We cannot always work or read. Both mind and body become wearied." +</P> + +<P> +"Then we have time for meditation." +</P> + +<P> +"But even thought will grow burdensome at times, and the mind sink +into listlessness and inactivity. Then we need recreation, in order +that we may afterwards both work and think better. Music and +dancing, in which mind and body find an innocent delight, effect +such a recreation. I know it is so in my case; and I know it is so +in the case of others. You do not say that dancing is a thing evil +in itself?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." This was admitted rather reluctantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then if it be made to serve a good end, it is a good thing." +</P> + +<P> +"But is often made to serve evil," said the minister. +</P> + +<P> +"Then it is an evil thing," promptly answered Grace; "and so every +good gift of heaven may be made an evil thing to those who use it +for an evil purpose. You know it is said that a spider extracts +poison from the same flower where the bee gets honey. The deadly +nightshade draws life from the same rain and sunshine that nourishes +and matures the wheat, from which our bread is made. It is the +purpose, uncle, that makes a thing evil." +</P> + +<P> +"Could you pray on going to bed, after an evening spent in dancing?" +asked the old man, confident that he had put a question that would +clearly show his niece her error. To his surprise, Grace answered, +with a beautiful smile on her face— +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes; and I have so prayed, many and many a time; not failing to +return thanks for the pleasure I had been permitted to enjoy." +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks for mere carnal pleasure!" +</P> + +<P> +"All things are good that are filled with good affections," said +Grace. "We are in a natural world, where all pleasure and pain +affect us in the natural degree most sensibly. We must come down, +that we may go up. We must let our natural joy and gladness have +free course, innocently, that they may be changed into a joy that is +higher and spiritual. Is it not so, uncle?" +</P> + +<P> +Now, the old man had not expected to find such a nice head on so +young a body; nor did he expect to be called upon to answer a +question, which came in a form that he was not prepared either to +negative or affirm. He had put all natural pleasures under the ban, +as flowing from the carnal mind; and, therefore, evil. As to filling +natural pleasures with spiritual life, that was a new position in +theology. He had preached against natural pleasures as evil, and, +therefore, to be abandoned by all who would lead a heavenly life. +Before he could collect his thoughts for an answer satisfactory to +himself, two or three ladies gathered around them, and he discreetly +forebore to make any further remarks on the subject. But he felt, as +may be supposed, very uncomfortable. +</P> + +<P> +After the first set was danced, one of the young ladies who had been +on the floor, and who had previously been introduced to the old +gentleman by Grace, came, with colour heightened by excitement, and +her beautiful face in a glow of pleasure, and sat down by his side. +Mr. Archer would have received her with becoming gravity, had it +been in his power to, do so; but the smile on her face was so +innocent, and she bent towards him so kindly and affectionately, +that he could not find it in his heart to meet her with even a +silent reproof. This young lady was really charming his ear, when a +gentleman came up to her, and said— +</P> + +<P> +"Anna, I want you to dance with me." +</P> + +<P> +"With pleasure," replied the girl. "You will excuse me for a while, +Mr. Archer," said she, and she was about rising as she spoke, but +the old man placed his hand upon her arm, and gently detained her. +</P> + +<P> +"You're not going to leave me?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, not if my company will give you any pleasure," replied the +young girl, with a gentle smile. "Please excuse me." This she +addressed to the person who had asked her to dance. He bowed, and +turned away. +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad to keep you by my side," said Mr. Archer, with some +seriousness in his manner. +</P> + +<P> +"And I am glad to stay here," was promptly answered, "if my company +will give you any pleasure. It does me good to contribute to others' +happiness." +</P> + +<P> +The old man was touched by this reply, for he felt that it was from +the heart. It sounded strangely to his ears from the lips of one who +had just been whirling in the mazy dance. +</P> + +<P> +"There is no real pleasure in any thing selfish," he remarked. "Yes, +you say truly, it does us good to contribute to the happiness of +others." +</P> + +<P> +"For this reason," said Anna, "I like dancing as a social +recreation. It is a mutual pleasure. We give and receive enjoyment." +</P> + +<P> +The old minister's face grew serious. +</P> + +<P> +"I have been to three or four parties," continued the young girl, +"where dancing was excluded, under some strange idea that it was +wrong; and I must say that so much evil-speaking and censoriousness +it has never been my lot to encounter in any company. The time, +instead of being improved as a season of mental and bodily +recreation, was worse than wasted. I know that I was worse instead +of better on returning from each of these companies, for I +insensibly fell into the prevailing spirit." +</P> + +<P> +"That was very bad, certainly," remarked Mr. Archer, before whose +mind arose some pictures of social gatherings, in which had +prevailed the very spirit condemned by his young companion. "But I +don't see how you are going to make dancing a sovereign remedy for +the evil." +</P> + +<P> +"It is not a sovereign remedy," was answered, "but it is a concert +of feeling and action, in which the mind is exhilarated, and in +which a mutual good-will is produced. You cannot dance without being +pleased, to a greater or less extent, with your partners on the +floor. Often and often have I had a prejudice against persons wear +off as we moved together in the dances, and I have afterwards +discovered in them good qualities to which I was before blinded." +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle," said Grace to the old man, just at this moment, bending to +his ear as she spoke, and taking his hand in hers,—"come! I want to +show you something." +</P> + +<P> +Grace drew him into the adjoining parlour, where another set was on +the floor. Two children, her younger brother and sister, were in it. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, just look at Ada and Willy," whispered Grace in his ear, as +she brought him in view of the young dancers. Ada was a lovely +child, and the old uncle's heart had already taken her in. She was a +graceful little dancer, and moved in the figures with the lightness +of a fairy. It was a beautiful sight, and in the face of all the +prejudices which half a century had worn into him, he felt that it +was beautiful. As he looked upon it, he could keep the dimness from +his eyes only by a strong effort. +</P> + +<P> +"Is there evil in that, uncle?" asked Grace, drawing her arm within +that of the old man's. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it good?" he replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; it is good," said Grace, emphatically, as she lifted her eyes +to his. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Archer did not gainsay her words. He at least felt that it was +not evil, though he could not admit that it was good. +</P> + +<P> +Spite of the dancing, which soon ceased to offend the good old man, +he passed a pleasant evening. Perhaps, he enjoyed the Christmas +party as much as any one there. +</P> + +<P> +Nothing was said, on the next day, by any one, on the subject of +dancing; though Mr. Archer, especially, thought a great deal about +the matter. Some ideas had come into his mind that were new there, +and he was pondering them attentively. On the third day of his +arrival, he had a severe attack of rheumatism, from which he +suffered great pain, besides a confinement to his room for a couple +of weeks. During that time, the untiring devotion and tender +solicitude of Grace touched the old man's heart deeply. When the +pain had sufficiently abated to let his mind attain composure, she +sought to interest him in various ways. Sometimes she would read to +him by the hour; sometimes she would entertain him with cheerful +conversation; and sometimes she would bring in one or two of her +young friends whom he had met at the Christmas party. +</P> + +<P> +With these, he had more than one discussion, in his sick room, on +the subject of dancing, and the old minister found these gay young +girls rather more than a match for him. During a discussion of this +kind, Grace left the room. In her absence, one of her companions +said to him— +</P> + +<P> +"Grace is a good girl." +</P> + +<P> +A quick light went over the old man's countenance; and he replied, +with evident feeling— +</P> + +<P> +"Good? Yes; I look at her, sometimes, and think her almost an +angel." +</P> + +<P> +"She dances." +</P> + +<P> +The old man sighed. +</P> + +<P> +"She is a Christian." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish there were more such in the world," said he, unhesitatingly. +</P> + +<P> +"And yet she dances." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear child," said Mr. Archer, turning with an affectionate smile +towards his young interlocutor, "don't take such an advantage of me +in the argument." +</P> + +<P> +"Then it is settled," was continued, in triumph, "that if dancing is +not a Christian grace, a maiden may dance and yet be a Christian?" +</P> + +<P> +"God bless you, and keep you from all the evil of the world," said +the old man, fervently, as he took the young girl's hand and pressed +it between his own. "It may be all right! it may be all right!" +</P> + +<P> +Grace came back at the moment, and he ceased speaking. +</P> + +<P> +From that time the venerable minister said no more on the subject, +and it is but fair to believe that when he returned home he had very +serious doubts in regard to the sin of dancing, which had once been +as fairly held as if it had been an article in the Confession of +Faith. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="lady"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IS SHE A LADY? +</H3> + +<P> +"MRS. TUDOR is a perfect lady," said my wife, Mrs. Sunderland, to me +one day, after having received a visit from the individual she +named. +</P> + +<P> +"She may have the manners of a lady," I replied, "when abroad; but +whether she be a lady at home or not, is more than I can tell. It is +easy to put on the exterior of a lady; but to be a lady is a very +different thing." +</P> + +<P> +"All that is true enough; but why do you connect such remarks with +the name of Mrs. Tudor? Do you know any thing to the contrary of her +being a lady?—a lady at home, as you say, for instance?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, I can't say that I do; but, somehow or other, I am a little +inclined to be doubtful of the genuineness of Mrs. Tudor's claims to +being a lady. Once or twice I have thought that I perceived an air +of superciliousness to persons who were considered inferior. This is +a rigid but true test of any one's claims to being either a lady or +a gentleman. No true lady is less careful of the feelings of those +below her than she is of those who are upon an equality." +</P> + +<P> +"But you only thought you saw this," said Mrs. Sunderland. +</P> + +<P> +"True, and my thought may be only a thought," I returned, "and +unjust to Mrs. Tudor, who may be as much of a lady at home and under +all circumstances, as she appears to be when abroad." +</P> + +<P> +"What she is, I have not the least doubt," said my wife. +</P> + +<P> +I never altogether fancied this Mrs. Tudor, although Mrs. Sunderland +liked her very much. Before we built our new house, Mrs. Tudor did +not know us, notwithstanding the fact that our pews had adjoined for +two or three years. But after that event, Mrs. Tudor found out that +we had an existence, and became uncommonly gracious with my wife. +</P> + +<P> +Not long after I had spoken out my mind in regard to Mrs. Tudor, +that lady, in company with her husband, paid us a visit one evening, +and after sitting an hour, invited us to come around and take tea +with them on a certain evening in the ensuing week. +</P> + +<P> +When the time came, as we had accepted the invitation, we went. We +found about a dozen persons assembled, half of whom were entire +strangers to us. Among these I soon perceived that there were two or +three who, in the eyes of Mrs. Tudor, were a little superior to her +other guests. On our entrance, we were introduced to them first, and +with particular formality, our lady hostess pronouncing their names +in a very distinct manner, while her articulation of ours was so low +that they were scarcely, if at all, heard. During the hour that +passed before tea was announced, Mrs. Tudor confined her attentions +almost exclusively to these two or three individuals, who were +evidently persons of more consequence than the rest of us. So +apparent was all this, that most of those who were in the room, +instead of joining in the conversation, sat looking at the more +favoured guests. +</P> + +<P> +"They must be persons of some importance," I could not help saying +to my wife in an undertone, in which her quick ear detected +something of sarcasm. +</P> + +<P> +"For mercy's sake, Mr. Sunderland!" she replied, in a voice that +only reached my own ears, "don't make remarks upon any of the +company." +</P> + +<P> +If she had said, "It is not gentlemanly to do so," she could not +have conveyed what she wished to utter more distinctly than she did. +</P> + +<P> +I felt the force of her reproof, but could not resist the +inclination I felt to reply. +</P> + +<P> +"We have so good an example of what is polite and genteel, that it +is not to be wondered if we profit a little." +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Sunderland! Why, will you!" My wife seemed distressed. +</P> + +<P> +I said no more on the subject, content with having let her know that +I was noticing the conduct of her perfect lady. I believe, if I +could have seen her thoughts, that among them I would have detected +this one among the rest; that it was not exactly fair and +gentlemanly in me to remind her so promptly of the error she had +probably committed in her estimate of Mrs. Tudor's character. +</P> + +<P> +Fully absorbed as she was in showing attentions to her more favoured +guests, Mrs. Tudor did not perceive the cold, uncomfortable, +unsocial feeling that had crept over the rest of her company. +</P> + +<P> +Tea was at last announced. I felt relieved at this, and so, I +perceived, did most of those around me. At the tea-table I expected +to find Mrs. Tudor more general in her attentions. But no. These +favoured ones were served first, and "Mrs.—, will you have this?" +and "Mrs.—, will you have that?" were almost exclusively confined +to three persons at the table. Mr. Tudor, I remarked, noticed this, +for he exerted himself in order to make all the rest feel at ease, +which he succeeded in doing to some extent. +</P> + +<P> +Waiting upon the table was a female domestic, a young girl of good +manners and appearance. To her Mrs. Tudor uniformly spoke in a way +that must have been felt as peculiarly disagreeable. The blandest +smile; and the most winning expression of voice, would instantly +change, when Lucy was addressed, to a cold, supercilious look, and +an undertone of command. Several times I saw the blood mount to the +girl's forehead, as a word or tone more marked and offensive than +usual would be given so loudly as to be perceived by all. Once or +twice, at such times, I could not resist a glance at Mrs. +Sunderland, which was generally met with a slight, rebuking +contraction of her brow. +</P> + +<P> +Through the efforts of Mr. Tudor, who certainly did his part well, +the tea-table party was a good deal more social than had been the +individuals composing it while in the parlour. The favoured guests, +notwithstanding the incense offered them by our hostess, appeared in +no way to esteem themselves as better than the rest, and, as soon as +opportunity was afforded them, tried to be at home with every one. +Once more in the parlours, and arranged there by a kind of social +crystallization, I perceived that Mrs. Tudor was sitting between two +of the ladies who were considered by her worthy of the most marked +attention. There she sat during nearly the whole of the evening, +except when refreshments were introduced, when she accompanied Lucy +round the room, occasionally speaking to her in a tone of offensive +command or cutting rebuke. +</P> + +<P> +For one, I was glad when the time came to go home, and I rather +think that all present were as much relieved, in getting away, as I +was. +</P> + +<P> +"What is your opinion now?" said I, triumphantly, to Mrs. +Sunderland, the moment we were in the street. +</P> + +<P> +"My opinion," she replied, a little sharply, "is, that you did not +act, in several instances, this evening, like a gentleman!" +</P> + +<P> +"I did not!" I spoke with affected surprise only; for I thought I +knew what it was she meant. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I am sorry to say that you did not. Nothing could have been +more improper than the notice you took of what was passing. A true +gentlemanly spirit would have led you to look away from, rather than +at the weakness of our hostess." +</P> + +<P> +"Look away from it, Mrs. Sunderland! How could I do that, pray? It +was before my eyes all the time." +</P> + +<P> +"You ought to have shut your eyes, then." +</P> + +<P> +"Nonsense." +</P> + +<P> +"Very far from it, Mr. Sunderland! You are ready enough to see the +faults of other people!"—(in this, I must confess, my wife did not +err very much)—"but quite willing to shut your eyes to your own. +Now, I think you acted just as bad as Mrs. Tudor; and, in fact, +worse." +</P> + +<P> +"Worse! You are complimentary, Mrs. Sunderland." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't help it if I am. Mrs. Tudor was led by her weakness to +conduct herself in an unlady-like manner; but you, with her example +before your eyes, and in a mood to reflect, permitted yourself to +remark upon her conduct in a way calculated to give pain." +</P> + +<P> +"In the name of wonder, what are you driving at, Mrs. Sunderland? No +one but you heard any remark I made." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish I could think so." +</P> + +<P> +"Who, besides yourself, heard what I said?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Tudor." +</P> + +<P> +"Impossible!" +</P> + +<P> +"He was sitting very near us when you so far forgot yourself as to +notice, verbally, what was passing, and I am well satisfied, either +heard distinctly what was said, or enough to enable him to +understand the nature of all you said." +</P> + +<P> +"You are surely mistaken," said I, feeling a good deal mortified, +and perceiving much more clearly than I did before the nature of my +offence against good manners and propriety of conduct. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish I were. But I fear I am not. I know that Mr. Tudor looked +around toward you suddenly, and I noticed that he was much more +particular afterward in his attentions to the rest of the company. +At table, you may have yourself remarked this." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I noticed it." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet, even at the table, when he was doing his best, you again +hurt his feelings." +</P> + +<P> +"Me!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you. When Mrs. Tudor spoke harshly to Lucy, or did something +or other that you thought out of the way, you must look your sarcasm +at me, notwithstanding the eyes of her husband were upon you." +</P> + +<P> +"But he didn't see me, then." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but he did. I saw him looking directly at you." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no! it cannot be." I was unwilling to believe this. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish it were not so for my husband's sake," returned Mrs. +Sunderland. "But the evidence of my senses I generally find it +necessary to credit." +</P> + +<P> +I must own that I felt considerably cut up, or cut down, whichever +is the most mortifying state to be in. To look and whisper my +censure in company, I had thought no great harm; but now that I had +found I had been discovered in the act, I had a mortifying sense of +its impropriety. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, anyhow," said I, rallying myself, and speaking with some +lightness of tone, "it is clear that Mrs. Tudor is no lady, for all +you thought her such a pattern-card of gentility." +</P> + +<P> +"And I have not the least doubt," retorted my wife, "that it is +equally clear to Mr. Tudor that you are no gentleman. So, on that +score, the account stands fairly balanced between the two families." +</P> + +<P> +This was a pretty hard hit; and I felt a little "riled up," as the +Yankees say, but I concluded that the uttering of a few sharp +sayings to my wife, under the circumstances, would not prove my +claim to being a gentleman, especially against the facts of the +case; so I cooled down, and walked home rather silently, and in not +the best humour with myself. +</P> + +<P> +On the next morning, I took up a little book from my wife's bureau, +and sat down to look over it while waiting for the breakfast bell. +It was a book of aphorisms, and I opened at once to a page where a +leaf was turned down. A slight dot with a pencil directed my eyes to +a particular line, which read— +</P> + +<P> +"<I>He who lives in a glass house shouldn't throw stones</I>." +</P> + +<P> +I am not sure that Mrs. Sunderland turned down that leaf in the +book, and marked the sentiment for my especial benefit; though I +strongly suspected her. At any rate, I deemed it best not to ask the +question. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="mourning"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +GOING INTO MOURNING. +</H3> + +<P> +THE weeping mother bent over the beautiful form of innocent +childhood—beautiful still, though its animating spirit had +fled—and kissed the pale cheek of her dear departed one. When she +lifted her head, a tear glistened on the cold brow of the babe. Then +the father looked his last look, and, with an effort, controlled the +emotion that wellnigh mastered him. The sisters came next, with +audible sobs, and cheeks suffused with tears. A moment or two they +gazed upon the expressionless face of their dear little playfellow, +and then the coffin lid was shut down, while each one present +experienced a momentary feeling of suffocation. +</P> + +<P> +As the funeral procession came out of the door, and the family +passed slowly across the pavement to the carriages, a few gossiping +neighbours—such as, with no particular acquaintance with the +principal members of a household, know all about the internal +management of every dwelling in the square—assembled close by, and +thus discoursed of the events connected with the burying. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor Mrs. Condy," said one, "how can she bear the loss of that +sweet little fellow!" +</P> + +<P> +"Other people have lost children as well as she," remarked a +sour-looking dame. "Rich people, thank heaven! have to feel as well +as we poor folks." +</P> + +<P> +No one seemed disposed to reply to this; and there was a momentary +silence. +</P> + +<P> +"They've got up mourning mighty quick," said a third speaker. +"Little Willie only died yesterday morning." +</P> + +<P> +"It's most all borrowed, I suppose," responded a fourth. +</P> + +<P> +"Hardly," said the other. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but I know that it is, though," added the individual who made +the allegation of borrowing; "because, you see, Lucy, the +chambermaid, told me last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her to +borrow her sister's black bombazine, and that the girls were all +hard enough put to it to know where to get something decent to +attend the funeral in." +</P> + +<P> +"No doubt, they thought more about mourning dresses, than they did +about the dead child," remarked the cynic of the group. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a shame, Mrs. Grime, for you to talk in that way about any +one," replied the woman who had first spoken. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the truth, Mrs. Myers," retorted Mrs. Grime. "By their works +ye shall know them. You needn't tell me about people being so +dreadful sorry at the loss of friends when they can make such a +to-do about getting black to wear. These bombazine dresses and long +black veils are truly enough called mourning—they are an excellent +counterfeit, and deceive one half of the world. Ah, me! If all the +money that was spent buying in mourning was given to the poor, there +would be less misery in the world by a great deal." +</P> + +<P> +And while the little group, attracted by the solemn pageant, thus +exercised the privilege of independent thought and free discussion, +carriage after carriage was filled and moved off, and soon the whole +passed out of sight. +</P> + +<P> +It was near the hour of twilight when the afflicted family returned, +and after partaking of supper, sparingly, and in silence, the +different members retired to their chambers, and at an early hour +sought relief to their troubled thoughts in sleep. +</P> + +<P> +On the next morning, during the breakfast hour, Mrs. Condy broke the +oppressive silence by asking of her husband the sum of fifty +dollars. +</P> + +<P> +"What for, Sarah?" said Mr. Condy, looking into her face with an +expression of grave inquiry. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the middle of the week now, you know, and therefore no time is +to be lost in getting mourning. At any rate, it will be as much as a +bargain to get dresses made by Sunday. Jane and Mary will have to go +out this morning and buy the goods." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed lost in deep and +somewhat painful thought. At length, he said, looking his wife +steadily in the face, but with a kind expression on his +countenance— +</P> + +<P> +"Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing show of mourning +cannot make us any the more sorry for the loss of our dear little +one," and his voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word, +and the moisture dimmed his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to put +on mourning," said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea of +non-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented to +her mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrow +awakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest. "How can you +think of such a thing?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, father, it would never do in the world," added the eldest +daughter, Jane. "I should feel condemned as long as I lived, if I +were to neglect so binding a duty." +</P> + +<P> +"And what would people say?" asked Mary, whose simple mind perceived +at once the strongest motive that operated in favour of the mourning +garments. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see, Mary," replied Mr. Condy, "that other people have any +thing at all to do in this matter. We know our grief to be real, and +need no artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black garments +cannot add to our sorrow." +</P> + +<P> +But Mrs. Condy shook her head, and the daughters shook their heads, +and the end of the matter was, Mr. Condy's purse-strings were +loosened, and the required amount of money handed over. +</P> + +<P> +After thinking a good deal about the matter, Mary suggested, about +an hour after breakfast, that it would not look well for her and +Jane to be seen shopping, and Willie only buried the day before; and +it was agreed to send for Ellen Maynard, who always sewed in the +family when there was much to do, and get her to make the purchases. +This determined, Lucy was despatched for Ellen. +</P> + +<P> +The reader will transfer his mental vision to a small but neat and +comfortable room in another part of the town. The inmates are two. +One, with a pale, thin face, and large bright eyes, reclines upon a +bed. The other is seated by a window, sewing. +</P> + +<P> +"I think I will try to sit up a little, Ellen," said the former, +raising herself up with an effort. +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't, if I were you, Margaret," replied the other, dropping +her work and coming to the bedside. "You had better keep still, or +that distressing cough may come back again." +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, sister," returned the invalid, "I feel so restless that it +is almost impossible to lie here. Let me sit up a little while, and +I am sure I shall feel better." +</P> + +<P> +Ellen did not oppose her further, but assisted her to a large +rocking-chair, and, after placing a pillow at her back, resumed her +work. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't help thinking of Mrs. Condy's little Willie," said Ellen, +after a pause. "Dear little fellow! How much they must all feel his +loss." +</P> + +<P> +"He is better off, though," remarked the sister; but even that idea +could not keep her eyes from glistening. The thought of death always +referred itself to her own near approach to the thick shadows and +the dark valley. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, he is with the angels," was the brief response of Ellen. +</P> + +<P> +Just at that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Condy's chambermaid +entered. +</P> + +<P> +"Good morning, Lucy, how do you do?" said Ellen, rising. "How is +Mrs. Condy and all the family?" +</P> + +<P> +"They are very well, Miss Ellen," replied Lucy. "Mrs. Condy wants +you to come there this morning and go and buy the mourning for the +family. And then they want you to come and sew all this week, and +part of next, too." +</P> + +<P> +Ellen glanced at her sister, involuntarily, and then said— +</P> + +<P> +"I am afraid, Lucy, that I can't go. Margaret is very poorly, and I +don't see how I can possibly leave her." +</P> + +<P> +"O yes, you can go, Ellen," said Margaret. "You can fix me what I +want, and come home every night. I'll do well enough." +</P> + +<P> +Ellen paused a few moments, and then turning to Lucy, said— +</P> + +<P> +"Tell Mrs. Condy that I will come round in the course of half an +hour." +</P> + +<P> +Lucy went away, and Ellen, after sitting irresolute for some +minutes, said— +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think, sister, that I can do any thing more for Mrs. Condy +than her shopping. I wouldn't like to leave you alone. You know how +bad your cough is sometimes." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll do well enough through the day, Ellen," replied Margaret, +though her feeble voice and languid manner told too plainly that she +could not do very well at any time. "You know that our rent will be +due in two weeks, and that you haven't yet got enough to pay it." +</P> + +<P> +"That is very true," said Ellen, somewhat sadly. "Anyhow, I'll go to +Mrs. Condy's, and will think about the matter." +</P> + +<P> +After dressing herself, Ellen insisted that her sister should lie +down. She then placed a small table close to the bed, upon which was +set a few articles of food, and a vial of cough medicine. After +charging Margaret to keep very quiet, and to try to sleep, she +turned upon her a look of deep and yearning affection, and then +hurried away. +</P> + +<P> +The sight of Ellen, and the necessary allusion to the recent +afflicting loss, caused the tears of the mother and sisters to flow +afresh. But these were soon dried up, and so much were the minds of +each interested in the idea of the mourning dresses, and in the +necessary directions to be given, that few traces of the real +affliction which had wrung their hearts remained, for the time, +perceptible. The orders received by Ellen were promptly filled at +the store where the family usually purchased their dry-goods, and +the various articles sent home. The bundles arrived about the same +time that Ellen returned. Then came a careful examination of the +shades of colour and quality of the goods. These proving +satisfactory, Jane said— +</P> + +<P> +"And now, Ellen, mother's dress, and Mary's, and mine must be done +this week. We'll all help you. Mary and I can make the skirts and +bind cord for you, and do a good deal on the dresses. You can get +them done, easily enough?" +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, Miss Jane," replied Ellen, and her voice was not steady, "I +hardly know what to say. Sister is worse than she has ever been; and +I don't see how I can leave her alone. She coughs terribly; and is +so weak, that she can only sit up a little while. She has failed +very fast within a week." +</P> + +<P> +"But you know this is a case particularly pressing," said Mrs. +Condy. "There seems to be no help for it. There is no one we can get +but you, now; and you know we give you all our sewing, and depend on +you. Lucy says that Margaret is willing to have you come, and says +that she can get on very well." +</P> + +<P> +Ellen paused a moment or two, and then replied, with an expression +of sadness in her voice—"I will make the dresses for you, Mrs. +Condy, but you must all help me as much as you can, so that I can +get home every evening. It won't do to let Margaret be alone all +night, for her cough is much worse in the evening, and before day in +the morning." +</P> + +<P> +Neither Mrs. Condy nor her daughters replied to this. Mentally, they +deemed it impossible for Ellen to go home at night. But they did not +wish to say so. It was Wednesday, and all the afternoon was consumed +in cutting, fitting, and basting the dresses. Night came, and Ellen, +after tea, prepared to go home. Some slight objection was made; but +she was resolute. It was some time after dark when she came in sight +of her chamber window. It showed that there was no light within. +Instantly she sprang forward, and soon bounded up the stairs and +into the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Margaret!—How are you, Margaret?" she said, pressing up to the +bedside, and putting her hand upon the forehead of her sister. It +was cold and clammy. A violent fit of coughing prevented a reply. A +light was obtained in a few minutes, and showed the countenance of +Margaret slightly distorted from difficult breathing, and her +forehead perceptibly corrugated. +</P> + +<P> +"You are worse, sister!" exclaimed Ellen, kissing her damp forehead. +</P> + +<P> +"No, not much worse. My cough is only a little troublesome," was the +quiet reply. +</P> + +<P> +"You have had no supper yet, of course," said Ellen. "A cup of hot +tea will do you good." +</P> + +<P> +This was soon prepared, and Margaret ate with a keen appetite. +After tea, she was much better. The cold perspiration ceased, and +her skin became dry and warm. A brief conversation passed between +the sisters, when Margaret fell off into a pleasant slumber. On the +next morning, with much reluctance and many misgivings as to whether +it were right to leave her sister alone, Ellen went to Mrs. Condy's. +Before going, however, she asked the kind neighbour who lived below, +to look in occasionally, and to see that Margaret had a good cup of +tea for dinner. This was promised, and she felt lighter at heart. +</P> + +<P> +Ellen worked hard through that day; but when night came, with all +the help she had received, the first dress was not finished. Unless +one dress were finished each day, the three could not be done by +Sunday; and this not being the case on the first day, how could she +go home that night? for if she worked a few hours longer, the +garment would be ready for the wearer. +</P> + +<P> +"I must run home a little while," said she, mentally, "and then come +back again. But how can I leave Margaret all night? She may die!" +The thought caused her to shudder. +</P> + +<P> +At length she said to Mrs. Condy— +</P> + +<P> +"I can't leave sister all night, madam. But I can take your dress +home with me, and by sitting up late, I can easily finish it. You +will have no objection to my doing this, I hope?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Condy paused a moment, for she did feel an objection to this +being done; but humanity prevailed, and she consented. This relieved +Ellen's mind very greatly, and she bundled up the dress, and hurried +away with it. Margaret appeared more feeble than she was in the +morning; and her cough was very troublesome. It was nearly twelve +o'clock when the last stitch was taken in Mrs. Condy's dress. And +then Ellen retired to her bed. But it was a long time before she +could sleep. The nervous excitement, induced by protracted labour +and great anxiety of mind, drove slumber from her eyelids for many +hours. Towards morning she fell into a troubled sleep, and awoke at +daylight unrefreshed. +</P> + +<P> +This day was Friday, and Jane's dress came next in turn. Ellen +applied herself with even greater assiduity than she had used on the +preceding day; but, as Jane's dress required more trimming, and less +assistance was given her on it, the progress she made towards its +completion was in no way promising. After dinner her head began to +ache, and continued its throbbing, almost blinding pain, until the +evening twilight began to fall, and the darkness compelled her to +suspend her work. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Ellen, Jane's dress isn't nigh done," said Mary, in tones of +surprise, on coming into the room, at the moment Ellen laid the +garment aside. +</P> + +<P> +"No, but I'll finish it to-night," replied Ellen. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, it'll take you pretty much all night to finish this," she +said, lifting and examining her sister's dress. "How in the world +did you get so behindhand, Ellen?" +</P> + +<P> +"This is a harder dress to make than your mother's," replied Ellen; +"and besides having had less help on it, my head has ached very +badly all the afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +Without seeming to notice the last reason given, Mary said— +</P> + +<P> +"Well, if you can possibly get it done to-night, Ellen, you must do +so. It would never answer in the world not to have all the dresses +done by to-morrow night." +</P> + +<P> +"I will have it done," was the brief reply, made in a low tone. +</P> + +<P> +Jane's dress was taken home that night, unfinished by full six or +seven hours' work. As Ellen had feared, she found Margaret suffering +much from her cough. After preparing some food for her sister, whose +appetite still remained good, she drank a cup of tea, and then sat +down to work upon the mourning garment. Towards midnight, Margaret, +who had fallen asleep early in the evening, began to grow restless, +and to moan as if in pain. Every now and then, Ellen would pause in +her work and look towards the bed, with an anxious countenance; and +once or twice she got up, and stood over her sister; but she did not +awake. It was three o'clock when the last stitch was taken, and then +Margaret's cough had awakened her, and she seemed to suffer so much +from that and from difficult breathing, that Ellen, even after lying +down, did not go to sleep for an hour. It was long after sunrise +when she awoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Must you go to-day, too?" inquired Margaret, looking into her +sister's face anxiously, on seeing her, after the hastily prepared +breakfast had been eaten, take up her bonnet and shawl. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Margaret, I must go to-day. There is one more dress to be +made, and that must be done. But after to-day, I won't go out +anywhere again until you are better." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think I shall ever be better again, Ellen," said the sick +girl. "I am getting so weak; and I feel just as if I shouldn't stay +here but a little while. You don't know how strange I feel +sometimes. Oh, I wish you didn't have to go out to-day!" And she +looked so earnestly into the face of her sister, that the tears +sprung into Ellen's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"If I can persuade them to put this last dress off until next week, +and then get some one else to make it, I will," said the sister: +"but if I can't, Margaret, try and keep up your spirits. I'll ask +Mrs. Ryland, down-stairs, to come and sit with you a little while at +a time through the day; and so if I can't; get off, you won't be +altogether without company." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish you would, sister, for I feel so lonesome sometimes," +replied Margaret, mournfully. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Ryland consented, for she was a kind-hearted woman, and liked +the sisters, and Ellen hurried away to Mrs. Condy's. +</P> + +<P> +"You are very late this morning, ain't you?" said Mary Condy, as +Ellen entered with Jane's finished dress. +</P> + +<P> +"I am a little late, Miss Mary, but I sat up until three o'clock +this morning, and overslept myself in consequence." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you'll finish my dress to-day, of course?" +</P> + +<P> +"Really, Miss Mary, I hardly know what to say about it. Sister is so +very poorly, that I am almost afraid to leave her alone. Can't you +in any way put yours off until next week? I have been up nearly all +night for two nights, and feel very unwell this morning." And +certainly her pale cheeks, sunken eyes, and haggard countenance +fully confirmed her statement. +</P> + +<P> +"It will be impossible, Ellen," was Mary's prompt and positive +response. "I must go to church to-morrow, and cannot, of course, go +out, without my black dress." +</P> + +<P> +With a sigh, Ellen sat down and resumed her needle. After a while +she said— +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Mary, I cannot finish your dress, unless you and your sister +help me a good deal." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, we'll do that, of course," replied Mary, getting up and leaving +the room. +</P> + +<P> +It was nearly eleven o'clock before Mary thought of helping Ellen +any, and then two or three young ladies came in to pay a visit of +condolence, and prevented her. Tears were shed at first; and then +gradually a more cheerful tone of feeling succeeded, and so much +interested were the young ladies in each other's company, that the +moments passed rapidly away, and advanced the time near on to the +dinner hour. It was full three o'clock before Mary and Jane sat +themselves down to help Ellen. The afternoon seemed almost to fly +away, and when it was nightfall, the dress was not half finished. +</P> + +<P> +"Will it be possible to get it done to-night?" asked Mrs. Condy. +</P> + +<P> +"It will be hard work, madam," said Ellen, whose heart was with her +sister. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, it can be finished," said Mary, "if we all work hard for two or +three hours. The fact is, it must be done. I wouldn't miss having it +for the world." +</P> + +<P> +With a sigh, Ellen turned again to her work; though feeble nature +was wellnigh sinking under the task forced upon her. It was past +eleven o'clock when the dress was finished, and Ellen prepared to go +home to her sister. +</P> + +<P> +"But you are not going home to-night?" said Mr. Condy, who was now +present. +</P> + +<P> +"O yes, sir. I haven't seen sister since morning, and she's very +ill." +</P> + +<P> +"What is the matter with your sister?" asked Mr. Condy, in a kind +tone. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid she's got the consump—" It vas the first time Ellen had +attempted to utter the word, and the sound, even though the whole of +it remained unspoken, broke down her feelings, and she burst into +tears. +</P> + +<P> +Instinctively, Mr. Condy reached for his hat and cane, and as he saw +Ellen recover, by a strong effort, her self-possession, he said— +</P> + +<P> +"It is too late for you to go home alone, Ellen, and as we cannot +ask you, under the circumstances, to stay all night, I will go with +you." +</P> + +<P> +Ellen looked her gratitude, for she was really afraid to go into the +street alone at that late hour. As they walked along, Mr. Condy, by +many questions, ascertained that Ellen had been almost compelled to +work day and night to make up mourning garments for his family, and +to absent herself from her sick sister, while she needed her most +careful attention. Arrived at her humble dwelling, his benevolent +feelings prompted him to ascertain truly the condition of Margaret, +for his heart misgave him that her end was very nigh. +</P> + +<P> +On entering the chamber, they found Mrs. Ryland, the neighbour who +lived below, supporting Margaret in the bed, who was gasping for +breath as if every moment in fear of suffocation. Ellen sprung +forward with a sudden exclamation, and, taking Mrs. Ryland's place, +let the head of her sister fall gently upon her bosom. Mr. Condy +looked on for a moment, and then hastily retired. As soon as he +reached home, he despatched a servant for the family physician, with +a special request to have him visit Ellen's sister immediately. He +then went into his wife's chamber, where the daughters, with their +mother, were engaged in looking over their new morning apparel. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid," said he, "that you have unintentionally been guilty of +a great wrong." +</P> + +<P> +"How?" asked Mrs. Condy, looking up with sudden surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"In keeping Ellen here so late from her sister, who is, I fear, at +this moment dying." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it possible!" exclaimed the mother and daughters with looks of +alarm. +</P> + +<P> +"It is, I fear, too true. But now, all that can be done is to try +and make some return. I want you, Mary, and your mother, to put on +your bonnets and shawls and go with me. Something may yet be done +for poor Margaret. I have already sent for the doctor." +</P> + +<P> +On the instant Mrs. Condy and Mary prepared themselves, and the +former put into a small basket some sugar and a bottle of wine, and +handed it to her husband, who accompanied them, at that late hour, +to the dwelling of the two sisters. On entering the chamber, they +found no one present but Ellen and Margaret. The latter still +reclined with her head on her sister's bosom, and seemed to have +fallen into a gentle slumber, so quiet did she lay. Ellen looked up +on the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Condy, with Mary; and they saw that +her eyes were filled with tears, and that two large drops stood upon +her cheeks. She made a motion for them to be seated, but did not +rise from her place on the bed, nor stir by the least movement of +her body the still sleeper who leaned upon her breast. For nearly +fifteen minutes, the most profound silence reigned throughout the +chamber. The visitors understood the whole scene, and almost held +their breaths, lest even the respiration, that to them seemed +audible, should disturb the repose of the invalid. At the end of +this time the physician entered, and broke the oppressive stillness. +But neither his voice nor his step, nor the answers and explanations +which necessarily took place, restored Margaret to apparent +consciousness. After feeling her pulse for some time, he said— +</P> + +<P> +"It will not be necessary to disturb her while she sleeps; but if +she becomes restless, a little wine may be given. In the morning I +will see her early," and he made a movement to go. +</P> + +<P> +"Doctor," said Ellen, looking him eagerly in the face, "tell me +truly—is she not dying?" +</P> + +<P> +For a moment the physician looked upon the earnest, tearful girl, +and read in her countenance that hope and fear held there a painful +struggle. +</P> + +<P> +"While there is life, there is hope," he replied briefly. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it," she urged appealingly. +"If my sister is going to die, I wish to know it." +</P> + +<P> +"I have seen many recover who appeared nearer to death than she is," +he replied, evasively. "As I have just said, where there is life, +there is hope." +</P> + +<P> +Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at the answer, and the +doctor went down-stairs, accompanied by Mr. Condy. The two remained +some minutes in conversation below, and when the latter returned he +found his wife and daughter standing by the bedside, and Margaret +exhibiting many signs of restlessness. She kept rolling her head +upon the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily. In a few +minutes she began to moan and mutter incoherently. After a little +while her eyes flew suddenly open, and she pronounced the name of +Ellen quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"I am here, Margaret," replied the sister, bending over her. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long?" she said, looking up +into her face half reproachfully, and seeming not to observe the +presence of others. "I was so lonesome all day; and then at night I +waited and waited, and you didn't come home! You won't go away any +more—will you, Ellen?" +</P> + +<P> +"No—no, sister, I won't leave you again," said Ellen, soothingly, +her tears starting afresh. +</P> + +<P> +The words of Margaret smote upon the heart of Mary, whose great +eagerness to get the mourning dress done, so that she could go out +on Sunday, had been the cause of Ellen's long detention from her +sick sister. She hastily turned away from the bed, and seated +herself by the window, As she sat there, the image of her +baby-brother came up vividly before her mind, and with it the +feeling of desolation which the loss of a dear one always occasions. +And with this painful emotion of grief, there arose in her mind a +distinct consciousness that, since her thoughts had become +interested in the getting and making up of her mourning dress, she +had felt but little of the keen sorrow that had at first overwhelmed +her, and that now came back upon her mind like a flood. As she sat +thus in silent communion with herself, she was enabled to perceive +that, in her own mind, there had been much less of a desire to +commemorate the death of her brother, in putting on mourning, than +to appear before others to be deeply affected with grief. She saw +that the black garments were not to remind herself of the dear +departed one, but to show to others that the babe was still +remembered and still mourned. In her present state of keen +perception of interior and true motives, she felt deeply humbled, +and inwardly resolved that, on the morrow, she would not go out for +the too vain purpose of displaying her mourning apparel. Just as +this resolution became fixed in her mind, a sudden movement at the +bedside arrested her attention, and she again joined the group +there. +</P> + +<P> +Her heart throbbed with a sudden and quicker pulsation, as her eye +fell upon the face of Margaret. A great change had passed upon it; +death had placed his sign there, and no eye could misunderstand its +import. Rapidly now did the work of dissolution go on, and just as +the day dawned, Margaret sank quietly away into that deep sleep that +knows no earthly waking. +</P> + +<P> +After rendering all such offices as were required, Mrs. Condy and +Mary went home, the latter promising Ellen that she would return and +remain with her through the day. At the breakfast table, Mr. Condy +so directed the conversation as to give the solemn event they had +been called to witness its true impression upon the minds of his +family. Before the meal closed, it was resolved that Jane and Mary +should go to the humble dwelling of Ellen, and remain with her +through the day; and that after the funeral, the expense of which +Mr. Condy said he would bear, Ellen should be offered a permanent +home. +</P> + +<P> +The funeral took place on Monday, and was attended by Mr. Condy's +family. On the next day Mrs. Condy called on Ellen, and invited her +to come home with her, and to remain there. The offer was thankfully +accepted. +</P> + +<P> +During the day, and while Ellen, assisted by Jane and Mary, was at +work on black dresses for the younger children, Mr. and Mrs. Condy +came into the room: the latter had a piece of bombazine in her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Here is a dress for you, Ellen," she said, handing her the piece of +bombazine. +</P> + +<P> +Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of surprise; her face +flushed an instant, and then grew pale. +</P> + +<P> +"You will want a black dress, Ellen," resumed Mrs. Condy, "and I +have bought you one." +</P> + +<P> +"I do not wish to put on black," said she, with a slightly +embarrassed look and an effort to smile, while her voice trembled +and was hardly audible. +</P> + +<P> +"And why not, Ellen?" urged Mrs. Condy. +</P> + +<P> +"I never liked black," she replied evasively. "And, anyhow, it would +do no good," she added somewhat mournfully, as if the former reason +struck her on the instant as being an insufficient one. +</P> + +<P> +"No, child, it wouldn't do any good," said Mr. Condy, tenderly and +with emotion. "And if you don't care about having it, don't take +it." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and Ellen again bent +silently over her work. The hearts of all present were touched by +her simple and true remark, "that it would do no good," and each one +respected her the more, that she shunned all exterior manifestation +of the real sorrow that they knew oppressed her spirits. And never +did they array themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought of +Ellen's unobtrusive grief did not come up and chide them. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="child"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IF THAT WERE MY CHILD! +</H3> + +<P> +"AH, good evening, Mr. Pelby! Good evening, Mr. Manly! I am glad to +see you! Mrs. Little and I were just saying that we wished some +friends would step in." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, how do you do this evening, Mrs. Little?" said Mr. Pelby, +after they were all seated. "You look remarkably well. And how is +your little family?" +</P> + +<P> +"We are all bright and hearty," Mrs. Little replied, smiling. +"Little Tommy has just gone off to bed. If you had come in a few +minutes sooner, you would have seen the dear little fellow. He's as +lively and playful as a cricket." +</P> + +<P> +"How old is he now?" asked Mr. Manly. +</P> + +<P> +"He will be two years and six months old the twenty-third of next +month." +</P> + +<P> +"Just the age of my Edward. How much I should like to see him!" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think he has gone to sleep yet," said the fond mother of an +only child, rising and going off to her chamber. +</P> + +<P> +"You bachelors don't sympathize much with us fathers of families," +said Mr. Little, laughing, to Mr. Pelby. +</P> + +<P> +"How should we?" +</P> + +<P> +"True enough! But then you can envy us; and no doubt do." +</P> + +<P> +"It's well enough for you to think so, Little. But, after all, I +expect we are the better off." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't flatter yourself in any such way, Mr. Pelby. I've been"— +</P> + +<P> +"Here's the darling!" exclaimed Mrs. Little, bounding gayly in the +room at the moment, with Tommy, who was laughing and tossing his +arms about in delight at being taken up from his bed, into which he +had gone reluctantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Come to pa, Tommy," said Mr. Little, reaching out his hands. "Now +ain't that a fine little fellow?" he continued, looking from face to +face of his two friends, and showing off Tommy to the best possible +advantage that his night-gown would permit. And he was a sweet +child; with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and clustering golden +ringlets. +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed he is a lovely child," Mr. Manly said earnestly. +</P> + +<P> +"A very fine child," Mr. Pelby remarked, mechanically. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll match him with the town!" broke in Mrs. Little, unable to +keep down the upswelling, delighted affection of her heart. +</P> + +<P> +By this time, Tommy's bewildered senses were restored, and he began +to look about him with lively interest. His keen eyes soon detected +Mr. Pelby's bright gold chain and swivel, and well knowing that it +betokened a watch, he slid quickly down from his father's lap, and +stood beside the knee of the nice bachelor visitor. +</P> + +<P> +"He's not afraid of strangers," said Mrs. Little, her eyes sparkling +with pleasure, as they followed every movement of her child. +</P> + +<P> +"Tee watch," said Tommy. +</P> + +<P> +"It'll bite," said Mr. Pelby. +</P> + +<P> +"Tee watch!" reiterated the child, grasping the chain. +</P> + +<P> +With not the best grace in the world, Mr. Pelby drew out his +beautiful gold lever, and submitted it to the rude grasp, as he +thought, of Tommy. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, ma! ma! Tee watch! tee watch!" cried the child, almost wild +with delight—at the same time advancing towards her as far as the +chain would permit, and then tugging at it as hard as he could, to +the no small discomfort of the visitor, who, seeing no movement of +relief on the part of either parent, was forced to slip the chain +over his head, and trust Tommy to carry his favourite time-keeper to +his mother. +</P> + +<P> +"Tommy'll be a watch-maker, I expect. Nothing pleases him so much as +a watch," remarked the father. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Pelby did not reply. He dared not, for he felt that, were he to +trust himself to speak, he should betray feelings that politeness +required him to conceal. +</P> + +<P> +"There!" suddenly exclaimed the mother, catching eagerly at the +watch, which Tommy had dropped, and recovering it just in time to +save it from injury. +</P> + +<P> +"Gim me! gim me! gim me!" cried Tommy, seizing her hands, and +endeavouring to get possession again of the valuable timepiece, +which had escaped so narrowly. +</P> + +<P> +"There, now," said Mrs. Little, yielding to the child's eager +importunity, and permitting him again to take possession of the +watch. "But you must hold it tighter." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Pelby was on nettles; but he dared not interfere. +</P> + +<P> +"Open it," said Tommy, endeavouring to loose the hinge of the case +with his tiny thumb-nail. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no; you mustn't open it, Tommy." +</P> + +<P> +"Open it!" resumed Tommy, in a higher and more positive tone. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't open it," said the mother, pretending to make an earnest +effort to loose the case. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>O-pen—it!</I>" screamed the child, in a loud angry tone. +</P> + +<P> +"Here, take it to Mr. Pelby, he will open it for you." And the watch +was again intrusted to Tommy's care, who bore it, and, as fortune +would have it, safely too, to its owner. +</P> + +<P> +Of course, Mr. Pelby could do no better, and so he displayed the +jewels and internal arrangement of his skeleton lever to the curious +gaze of the child. At first, Tommy was well pleased to look alone: +but soon the ends of his fingers itched to touch, and touch he did, +quite promptly; and, of course, Mr. Pelby very naturally drew back +the hand that held the watch; and just as naturally did Tommy +suddenly extend his and grasp the receding prize. With some +difficulty, Mr. Pelby succeeded in disengaging the fingers of the +child, and then hastily closing the watch, he slipped it into his +pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"There, it's gone!" said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Tee de watch!" replied Tommy. +</P> + +<P> +"It's gone clear off." +</P> + +<P> +"Tee de watch!" said Tommy more emphatically. +</P> + +<P> +"Here, come see mine," said the father. +</P> + +<P> +"No," replied the child, angrily. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Pelby, to quiet Tommy, now took him upon his lap, and called his +attention to a large cameo breast-pin. This pleased him at once, and +he amused himself with pulling at it, and sadly rumpling the +visitor's snow-white bosom. Next he began to dive into his pockets, +revealing pen-knife, tooth-pick, etc. etc. This was worse than to +let him have the watch; and so, as a lesser evil, the gold lever was +again drawn from its hiding-place. The little fellow was once more +wild with delight. +</P> + +<P> +But Pelby was so evidently annoyed, that Mr. Little could not help +observing it; and he at length said to his wife— +</P> + +<P> +"Hadn't you better take Tommy up-stairs, my dear? He is too +troublesome." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Pelby had it on his tongue's end to say, "Oh, no, he don't +trouble me at all!" But he was afraid—not to tell a falsehood—but +that the child would be suffered to remain; so he said nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, Tommy," said Mrs. Little, holding out her hands. +</P> + +<P> +"No!" replied the child emphatically. +</P> + +<P> +"Come." +</P> + +<P> +"No!" still louder and more emphatic. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, come, dear." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I won't!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but you must!" Mrs. Little said, taking hold of him. +</P> + +<P> +At this, Tommy clung around the neck of Mr. Pelby, struggling and +kicking with all his might against the effort of his mother to +disengage him; who finally succeeded, and bore him, screaming at the +top of his voice, from the room. +</P> + +<P> +"If that were my child," said Mr. Pelby, after they had left the +house, "I'd half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him! I +never saw such an ill-behaved, graceless little rascal in my life!" +</P> + +<P> +"Children are children, Mr. Pelby," quietly remarked his auditor, +Mr. Manly, who had half a dozen "little responsibilities" himself. +</P> + +<P> +"Hard bargains at the best, I know. But then I have seen +good-behaved children; and, if parents would only take proper pains +with them, all might be trained to good behaviour and obedience. If +I had a child, it would act different, I know, from what that one +did this evening." +</P> + +<P> +"Old bachelors' children, you know," Mr. Manly said, with a smile. +</P> + +<P> +"O yes, I know. But silly adages don't excuse neglectful parents," +replied Mr. Pelby, a little touched at the allusion. +</P> + +<P> +"That is true, Mr. Pelby. But what I meant you to understand by the +remark was, that those who have no children of their own are too +often wanting in a due consideration and forbearance towards those +of other people. I have quite a house full and I know that I take +great pains with them, and that the true management of them costs me +much serious consideration; and yet I have known some of mine to act +much worse than Tommy Little did this evening." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, all I have to say in the matter, friend Manly, is this:—If I +had a child that acted as rudely as that young one did to-night, I +would, teach him a lesson that he would not forget for the next +twelve months." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't know what you would do, if you had a child, Pelby. An +active, restless child requires patience and continued forbearance; +and, if it should be your lot to have such a one, I am sure your +natural affection and good sense would combine to prevent your +playing the unreasonable tyrant over it." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps it would. But I am sure I should not think my natural +affection and good sense pledged to let my child do as he pleased, +and annoy every one that came to the house." +</P> + +<P> +"You were exceedingly annoyed, then, to-night?" +</P> + +<P> +"Annoyed! Why, I could hardly sit in my chair towards the last. And +when the young imp came pawing me and climbing over me, I could +hardly help tossing him off of my lap upon the floor." +</P> + +<P> +"You did not seem so much worried. I really thought you were pleased +with the little fellow." +</P> + +<P> +"Now, that is too bad, Manly! I'd as lief had a monkey screwing and +twisting about in my lap. It was as much as I could do to be civil +to either his father or mother for suffering their brat to tease me +as he did. First, I must be kissed by his bread and butter mouth; +and then he made me suffer a kind of martyrdom in fear of my elegant +lever. A watch is not the thing for a child to play with, and I am +astonished at Little for suffering his young one to annoy a visitor +in that way." +</P> + +<P> +"Blame them as much as you please, but don't feel unkindly towards +the child," said Manly. "He knows no better. Your watch delighted +him, and of course he wanted it, and any attempt to deprive him of +it was very naturally resisted. His parents are fond of him—and +well they may be—and pet him a great deal; thus he has learned to +expect every visitor to notice him, and also expects to notice and +make free with every visitor. This is all very natural." +</P> + +<P> +"Natural enough, and so is it to steal; but that don't make it +right. Children should be taught, from the first, to be reserved in +the presence of strangers, and never to come near them unless +invited. If I had one, I'll be bound he wouldn't disgrace me as +Little's child did him to-night." +</P> + +<P> +"We'll see, one of these days, perhaps," was Manly's quiet remark; +and the friends parted company. +</P> + +<P> +Ten years often make a great difference in a man's condition, +habits, and feelings. Ten years passed away, and Mr. Pelby was a +husband, and the father of three interesting children,—indulged, of +course, and "pretty considerably" spoiled, yet interesting withal, +and, in the eyes of their father, not to be compared for beauty, +good manners, etc. with any other children inhabiting the same city. +William, the oldest boy, had not quite completed his sixth year. +Emma, a rosy-cheeked, chubby little thing, when asked her age, could +say— +</P> + +<P> +"Four years old last June." +</P> + +<P> +And Henry was just the age that Tommy Little was when he so terribly +annoyed Mr. Pelby. Now, as to Henry's accomplishments, they were +many and various. He could be a good boy when he felt in a pleasant +humour, and could storm, and fret, and pout in a way so well +understood by all parents, that it would be a work of supererogation +to describe it here. But strange mutation of disposition!—Mr. Pelby +could bear these fits of perverseness with a philosophy that would +have astonished even himself, could he have for a moment realized +his former state of mind. When Henry became ill-tempered from any +cause, he had, from loving him, learned that to get into an +ill-humour also would be only adding fuel to flame; and so, on such +occasions, he sought affectionately to calm and soothe his ruffled +feelings. If Henry, or Emma, or William, from any exuberance of +happy feelings, were noisy or boisterous, he did not think it right +to check them suddenly, because he was a little annoyed. He tried, +rather, to feel glad with them—to partake of their joy. In short, +Mr. Pelby had grown into a domestic philosopher. A wife and two or +three children do wonders sometimes! +</P> + +<P> +Now it so happened about this time, that Mr. and Mrs. Manly and Mr. +and Mrs. Little were spending an evening with Mr. and Mrs. Pelby. +William and Emma had their suppers prepared for them in the kitchen, +and then, as usual, were put to bed; but "dear little Henry" was so +interesting to his parents, and they naturally thought must be so +interesting to their company, that he was allowed to sit up and come +to the tea-table. As Mrs. Pelby had no dining-room, the back parlour +was used for this purpose, and so all the progressive arrangements +of the tea-table were visible. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, dinne weddy! dinne weddy!" cried little Henry, sliding down +from the lap of Mrs. Little—whose collar he had been rumpling so +that it was hardly fit to be seen—as soon as he saw the cloth laid; +and, running for a chair, he was soon perched up in it, calling +lustily for "meat." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, no, Henry! dinner not ready yet!" said Mrs. Pelby, starting +forward, and endeavouring to remove the child from his seat; but +Henry screamed and resisted. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, let him sit, mother!" interfered Mr. Pelby. "The little dear +don't understand waiting as we do." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but, father, it is time that he had learned. Tea isn't near +ready yet; and if he is allowed to sit here, he will pull and haul +every thing about," responded Mrs. Pelby. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, never mind, mother! Give him some meat, and he'll be quiet +enough. I never like to see little folks made to wait for grown +people; they cannot understand nor appreciate the reason of it." +</P> + +<P> +And so little Henry was permitted to remain at the table, picking +first at one thing and then at another, much to the discomfort and +mortification of his mother, who could not see in this indulgence +any thing very interesting. Mrs. Little was relieved, although her +collar was disfigured for the evening past hope. +</P> + +<P> +After a while tea was announced, and the company sat down. +</P> + +<P> +"Me toffee! me toffee!" cried Henry, stretching out his hands +impatiently. "Me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma!" as soon as Mrs. Pelby +was seated before the tea-tray, and had commenced supplying the cups +with cream and sugar. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—yes—Henry shall have coffee. H-u-s-h—there—be quiet—that's +a good boy," she said, soothingly. But— +</P> + +<P> +"Me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma!" was continued without +a moment's cessation. "Ma! ma! ma! me toffee! me toffee!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes, yes! you shall have coffee in a moment; only be patient, +child!" Mrs. Pelby now said, evidently worried; for Henry was crying +at the top of his voice, and impatiently shaking his hands and +vibrating his whole body. +</P> + +<P> +But he ceased not a moment until his mother, before any of the +company had been served, prepared him a cup of milk and warm water, +sweetened. Placing his lips to the edge of the cup, Henry drank the +whole of it off before the table was more than half served. +</P> + +<P> +"Me more toffee, ma!" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Pelby paused, and looked him in the face with an expression of +half despair and half astonishment. +</P> + +<P> +"Me more toffee, ma!" continued Henry. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, wait a moment, and I'll give you more," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"More toffee, ma!" in a louder voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, in a moment." +</P> + +<P> +"More toffee, ma!" This time louder and more impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +To keep the peace, a second cup of milk and water had to be +prepared, and then Mrs. Pelby finished waiting on her company. But +it soon appeared that the second cup had not really been wanted, for +now that he had it, the child could not swallow more than two or +three draughts. His amusement now consisted in playing in his saucer +with a spoon, which being perceived by his mother, she said to him— +</P> + +<P> +"There now, Henry, you didn't want that, after all. Come, let me +pour your tea back into the cup, and set the cup on the waiter, or +you will spill it;" at the same time making a motion to do what she +had proposed. But— +</P> + +<P> +"No! no! no!" cried the child, clinging to the saucer, and +attempting to remove it out of his mother's reach. This he did so +suddenly, that the entire contents were thrown into Mrs. Little's +lap. +</P> + +<P> +"Bless me, Mrs. Little!" exclaimed Mrs. Pelby, really distressed; +"that is too bad! Come, Henry, you must go away from the table;" at +the same time attempting to remove him. But he cried— +</P> + +<P> +"No! no! no!" so loud, that she was constrained to desist. +</P> + +<P> +"There, let him sit; he won't do so any more," said Mr. Pelby. "That +was very naughty, Henry. Come, now, if you want your tea, drink it, +or let me put it away." +</P> + +<P> +Henry already knew enough of his father to be convinced that when he +spoke in a certain low, emphatic tone, he was in earnest; and so he +very quietly put his mouth down to his saucer and pretended to +drink, though it would have been as strange as pouring water into a +full cup without overflowing it, as for him to have let any more go +down his throat, without spilling a portion already there out at the +top. +</P> + +<P> +Tea was at last over, and Mrs. Little, on rising from the table, had +opportunity and leisure to examine her beautiful silk, now worn for +the second time. Fortunately, it was of a colour that tea would not +injure, although it was by no means pleasant to have a whole front +breadth completely saturated. Mrs. Pelby made many apologies, but +Mr. Pelby called it a "family accident," and one of a kind that +married people were so familiar with, as scarcely to be annoyed by +them. +</P> + +<P> +"Come here, Henry," said he. "Just see what you have done! Now go +kiss the lady, and say, 'I'm sorry.'" +</P> + +<P> +The little fellow's eye brightened, and going up to Mrs. Little, he +pouted out his cherry lips, and, as she kissed him, he said, with a +suddenly-assumed demure, penitent look—"I torry." +</P> + +<P> +"What's Henry sorry for?" asked Mrs. Little, instantly softening +towards the child, and taking him on her knee. +</P> + +<P> +"I torry," he repeated, but in a much livelier tone, at the same +time that he clambered up and stood in her lap, with his little +hands again crushing her beautiful French collar. +</P> + +<P> +"Come here, Henry," said Mr. Manly, who saw that Mrs. Little was +annoyed at this; but Henry would not move. He had espied a comb in +Mrs. Little's head, and had just laid violent hands upon it, +threatening every moment to flood that lady's neck and shoulders +with her own dishevelled tresses. +</P> + +<P> +"Come and see my watch," said Mr. Manly. +</P> + +<P> +This was enough. Henry slid from Mrs. Little's lap instantly, and in +the next minute was seated on Mr. Manly's knee, examining that +gentleman's time-keeper. Between opening and shutting the watch, +holding it first to his own and then to Mr. Manly's ear, Henry spent +full a quarter of an hour. Even that considerate, kind-hearted +gentleman's patience began to be impaired, and he could not help +thinking that his friend, Mr. Pelby, ought to be thoughtful enough +to relieve him. Once or twice he made a movement to replace the +watch in his pocket, but this was instantly perceived and as +promptly resisted. The little fellow had an instinctive perception +that Mr. Manly did not wish him to have the watch, and for that very +reason retained possession of it long beyond the time that he would +have done if it had been fully relinquished to him. +</P> + +<P> +At last he tired of the glittering toy, and returned to annoy Mrs. +Little; but she was saved by the appearance of a servant with fruit +and cakes. +</P> + +<P> +"Dim me cake! dim me cake!" cried Henry, seizing hold of the +servant's clothes, and pulling her so suddenly as almost to cause +her to let fall the tray that was in her hands. +</P> + +<P> +To keep the peace, Henry was helped first of all to a slice of +pound-cake. +</P> + +<P> +"Mo' cake," he said, in a moment or two after, unable to articulate +with any degree of distinctness, for his mouth was so full that each +cheek stood out, and his lips essayed in vain to close over the +abundant supply within. Another piece was given, and this +disappeared as quickly. Then he wanted an apple, and as soon as he +got one, he cried for a second and a third. Then— +</P> + +<P> +But we will not chronicle the sayings and doings of little Henry +further; more than to say, that he soon, from being allowed to sit +up beyond the accustomed hour, grew fretful and exceedingly +troublesome, preventing all pleasant intercourse between the +visitors and visited, and that at nine o'clock he was carried off +screaming to his bed. +</P> + +<P> +"If that were my child," said Mr. Little, pausing at his own door, +and turning round to Mr. and Mrs. Manly, who had accompanied his +wife thus far on their way home, "I would teach him better manners, +or I would half kill him. I never saw such an ill-conditioned little +imp in my life!" +</P> + +<P> +"Children are children, you know," was Mr. Manly's quiet reply. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but children may be made to behave, if any pains at all be +taken with them. It is really unpardonable for any one to let a +child like that worry visitors as he did us this evening." +</P> + +<P> +"Few children of his age, Mr. Little, unless of a remarkably quiet +and obedient disposition, are much better than Pelby's little boy." +</P> + +<P> +"As to that, Mr. Manly," broke in Mrs. Little, "there's our Tommy, a +fine boy of twelve, as you know. He never acted like that when he +was a child. I never had a bit of trouble with him when we had +company. We could bring him down into the parlour when he was of +Henry Pelby's age, and he would go round and kiss all the ladies so +sweetly, and then go off to bed, like a little man, as he was." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Mrs. Little, you forget," said Mr. Manly, laughing. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, indeed, Mr. Manly. I don't forget these things. We could do +any thing with Tommy at his age, and it was because we managed him +rightly. You can do any thing with children you please." +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, then, Mrs. Little, it is more than I can say," remarked +Mrs. Manly. "If my children could be made any thing at all of, they +would have been different from what they are; and yet, I believe," +she added, with a feeling of maternal pride, "they are not the worst +children I have ever seen." +</P> + +<P> +"Good-nights" were now exchanged, and, after Mr. and Mrs. Manly had +walked a few steps, the former said, +</P> + +<P> +"Well, this is a curious world that we live in. Ten years ago, +Pelby, then a trim bachelor, as nice and particular as any of the +tribe, said, in allusion to Tommy Little—'If that were my child, I +would half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him!'" +</P> + +<P> +"He did?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, those were his very words. We were spending an evening at Mr. +and Mrs. Little's, and when Tommy was about two years old or so; and +Pelby was terribly annoyed by him. He acted pretty much as all +children do—that is, pretty much as Henry did to-night. But Pelby +couldn't endure it with any kind of patience." +</P> + +<P> +"Ha! ha!" laughed out Mrs. Manly, in spite of herself. "How +completely the tables have been turned!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, they have been, certainly. But what is a little singular is, +that neither of the parties concerned seem to have gained wisdom by +their experience. Pelby forgets how other people's children once +annoyed him, and Mr. and Mrs. Little seem to be entirely unconscious +that their paragon was very much like all other little boys when he +was only about two or three years old. For my part, I think we +should be careful not to let our children trespass upon visitors. +None can feel the same interest in them that we do, or exercise the +same forbearance towards their faults. Faults they all have, which +need especial care in their correction; and these should be suffered +to appear as rarely as possible under circumstances which prevent a +salutary check being placed upon them. For this reason, you know, we +have made it a matter of concert not to let our children, while, too +young to understand something of propriety, be present, but for a +very short time, when we had company. The moment they become rude or +too familiar, they were quietly taken from the room." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; and knowing as I do," said Mrs. Manly, "how very restless some +children with active minds are, I am never disposed to look with +unfavourable eyes upon any, even when wild, turbulent, and heedless. +They act as they feel; and so far as evil affections show +themselves, we know they are inherited, and that it is not in the +power of the child to remove them. We should then be moved, it seems +to me, with a purer affection for them; with something of pity mixed +with our love, and, instead of suffering their wrong actions to +repulse us, we should draw towards them with a desire to teach them +what is wrong, and impart to them some power to overcome evil." +</P> + +<P> +"If all thought as you, Mary," said Mr. Manly, as they gained their +own doors, "we should hear no one railing out against other people's +children, while he indulged his own. A fault too common with most +parents." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="iwill"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +I WILL! +</H3> + +<P> +"YOU look sober, Laura. What has thrown a veil over your happy +face?" said Mrs. Cleaveland to her niece, one morning, on finding +her alone and with a very thoughtful countenance. +</P> + +<P> +"Do I really look sober?" and Laura smiled as she spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"You did just now. But the sunshine has already dispelled the +transient cloud. I am glad that a storm was not portended." +</P> + +<P> +"I felt sober, aunt," Laura said, after a few moments—her face +again becoming serious. +</P> + +<P> +"So I supposed, from your looks." +</P> + +<P> +"And I feel sober still." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am really discouraged, aunt." +</P> + +<P> +"About what?" +</P> + +<P> +The maiden's cheek deepened its hue, but she did not reply. +</P> + +<P> +"You and Harry have not fallen out, like a pair of foolish lovers, I +hope." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no!" was the quick and emphatic answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Then what has troubled the quiet waters of your spirit? About what +are you discouraged?" +</P> + +<P> +"I will tell you," the maiden replied. "It was only about a week +after my engagement with Harry that I called upon Alice Stacy, and +found her quite unhappy. She had not been married over a few months. +I asked what troubled her, and she said, 'I feel as miserable as I +can be.' 'But what makes you miserable, Alice?' I inquired. 'Because +William and I have quarrelled—that's the reason,' she said, with +some levity, tossing her head and compressing her lips, with a kind +of defiance. I was shocked—so much so, that I could not speak. 'The +fact is,' she resumed, before I could reply, 'all men are arbitrary +and unreasonable. They think women inferior to them, and their wives +as a higher order of slaves. But I am not one to be put under any +man's feet. William has tried that trick with me, and failed. Of +course, to be foiled by a woman is no very pleasant thing for one of +your lords of creation. A tempest in a teapot was the consequence. +But I did not yield the point in dispute; and, what is more, have no +idea of doing so. He will have to find out, sooner or later, that I +am his equal in every way; and the quicker he can be made conscious +of this, the better for us both. Don't you think so?' I made no +answer. I was too much surprised and shocked. 'All men,' she +continued, 'have to be taught this. There never was a husband who +did not, at first, attempt to lord it over his wife. And there never +was a woman, whose condition as a wife was at all above that of a +passive slave, who did not find it necessary to oppose herself at +first, with unflinching perseverance.' +</P> + +<P> +"To all this, and a great deal more, I could say nothing. It choked +me up. Since then, I have met her frequently, at home and elsewhere, +but she has never looked happy. Several times she has said to me, in +company, when I have taken a seat beside her, and remarked that she +seemed dull, 'Yes, I am dull; but Mr. Stacy, there, you see, enjoys +himself. Men always enjoy themselves in company—apart from their +wives, of course.' I would sometimes oppose to this a sentiment +palliative of her husband; as, that, in company, a man very +naturally wished to add his mite to the general joyousness, or +something of a like nature. But it only excited her, and drew forth +remarks that shocked my feelings. Up to this day, they do not appear +to be on any better terms. Then, there is Frances Glenn—married +only three months, and as fond of carping at her husband for his +arbitrary, domineering spirit, as is Mrs. Stacy. I could name two or +three others, who have been married, some a shorter and some a +longer period, that do not seem to be united by any closer bonds. +</P> + +<P> +"It is the condition of these young friends, aunt, that causes me to +feel serious. I am to be married in a few weeks. Can it be possible +that my union with Henry Armour will be no happier, no more perfect +than theirs? This I cannot believe. And yet, the relation that Alice +and Frances hold to their husbands, troubles me whenever I think of +it. Henry, as far as I have been able to understand him, has strong +points in his character. From a right course of action,—or, from a +course of action that he thinks right,—no consideration, I am sure, +would turn him. I, too, have mental characteristics somewhat +similar. There is, likewise, about me, a leaven of stubbornness. I +tremble when the thought of opposition between us, upon any subject, +crosses my mind. I would rather die—so I feel about it—than ever +have a misunderstanding with my husband." +</P> + +<P> +Laura ceased, and her aunt, who was, she now perceived, much +agitated, arose and left the room without speaking. The reason of +this to Laura was altogether unaccountable. Her aunt Cleaveland, +always so mild, so calm, to be thus strongly disturbed! What could +it mean? What could there be in her maidenly fears to excite the +feelings of one so good, and wise, and gentle? An hour afterwards, +and while she yet sat, sober and perplexed in mind, in the same +place where Mrs. Cleaveland had left her, a domestic came in and +said that her aunt wished to see her in her own room. Laura attended +her immediately. She found her calm and self-possessed, but paler +than usual. "Sit down beside me, dear," Mrs. Cleaveland said, +smiling faintly, as her niece came in. +</P> + +<P> +"What you said this morning, Laura," she began, after a few moments, +"recalled my own early years so vividly, that I could not keep down +emotions I had deemed long since powerless. The cause of those +emotions it is now, I clearly see, my duty to reveal—that is, to +you. For years I have carefully avoided permitting my mind to go +back to the past, in vain musings over scenes that bring no pleasant +thoughts, no glad feelings. I have, rather, looked into the future +with a steady hope, a calm reliance. But, for your sake, I will draw +aside the veil. May the relation I am now about to give you have the +effect I desire! Then shall I not suffer in vain. How vividly, at +this moment, do I remember the joyful feelings that pervaded my +bosom, when, like you, a maiden, I looked forward to my wedding-day. +Mr. Cleaveland was a man, in many respects, like Henry Armour. +Proud, firm, yet gentle and amiable when not opposed;—a man with +whom I might have been supremely happy;—a man whose faults I might +have corrected—not by open opposition to them—not by seeming to +notice them—but by leading him to see them himself. But this course +I did not pursue. I was proud; I was self-willed; I was unyielding. +Elements like these can never come into opposition without a victory +on either side being as disastrous as the defeats. We were married. +Oh, how sweet was the promise of my wedding-day! Of my husband I was +very fond. Handsome, educated, and with talents of a high order, +there was every thing about him to make the heart of a young wife +proud. Tenderly we loved each other. Like days in Elysium passed the +first few months of our wedded life. Our thoughts and wishes were +one. After that, gradually a change appeared to come over my +husband. He deferred less readily to my wishes. His own will was +more frequently opposed to mine, and his contentions for victory +longer and longer continued. This surprised and pained me. But it +did not occur to me, that my tenaciousness of opinion might seem as +strange to him as did his to me. It did not occur to me, that there +would be a propriety in my deferring to him—at least so far as to +give up opposition. I never for a moment reflected that a proud, +firm-spirited man, might be driven off from an opposing wife, rather +than drawn closer and united in tenderer bonds. I only perceived my +rights as an equal assailed. And, from that point of view, saw his +conduct as dogmatical and overbearing, whenever he resolutely set +himself against me, as was far too frequently the case. +</P> + +<P> +"One day,—we had then been married about six months,—he said to +me, a little seriously, yet smiling as he spoke, 'Jane, did not I +see you on the street, this morning?' 'You did,' I replied. 'And +with Mrs. Corbin?' 'Yes.' My answer to this last question was not +given in a very pleasant tone. The reason was this. Mrs. Corbin, a +recent acquaintance, was no favourite with my husband; and he had +more than once mildly suggested that she was not, in his view, a fit +associate for me. This rather touched my pride. It occurred to me, +that I ought to be the best judge of my female associates, and that +for my husband to make any objections was an assumption on his part, +that, as a wife, I was called upon to resist. I did not, on previous +occasions, say any thing very decided, contenting myself with +parrying his objections laughingly. This time, however, I was in a +less forbearing mood. 'I wish you would not make that woman your +friend' he said, after I had admitted that he was right in his +observation. 'And why not, pray?' I asked, looking at him quite +steadily. 'For reasons before given, Jane,' he replied, mildly, but +firmly. 'There are reports in circulation touching her character, +that I fear are'—'They are false!' I interrupted him. 'I know they +are false!' I spoke with a sudden excitement. My voice trembled, my +cheek burned, and I was conscious that my eye shot forth no mild +light. 'They are true—I know they are true!' Mr. Cleaveland said, +sternly, but apparently unruffled. 'I don't believe it,' I retorted. +'I know her far better. She is an injured woman.' +</P> + +<P> +"'Jane,' my husband now said, his voice slightly trembling, 'you are +my wife. As such, your reputation is as dear to me as the apple of +my eye. Suspicion has been cast upon Mrs. Corbin, and that suspicion +I have good reason for believing well founded. If you associate with +her—if you are seen upon the street with her, your fair fame will +receive a taint. This I cannot permit.' +</P> + +<P> +"There was, to my mind, a threat contained in the last sentence—a +threat of authoritative intervention. At this my pride took fire. +</P> + +<P> +"'Cannot permit!' I said, drawing myself up. 'What do you mean, Mr. +Cleveland?' +</P> + +<P> +"The brow of my husband instantly flushed. He was silent for a +moment or two. Then he said, with forced calmness, yet in a +resolute, meaning tone— +</P> + +<P> +"'Jane, I do not wish you to keep company with Mrs. Corbin.' +</P> + +<P> +"'I WILL!' was my indignant reply. +</P> + +<P> +"His face grew deadly pale. For a moment his whole frame trembled as +if some fearful struggle were going on within. Then he quietly +arose, and, without looking at me, left the room. Oh! how deeply did +I regret uttering those unhappy words the instant they were spoken! +But repentance came too late. For about the space of ten minutes, +pride struggled with affection and duty. At the end of that time the +latter triumphed, and I hastened after my husband to ask his +forgiveness for what I said. But he was not in the parlours. He was +not in the house! I asked a servant if she had seen him, and +received for reply that he had gone out. +</P> + +<P> +"Anxiously passed the hours until nightfall. The sad twilight, as it +gathered dimly around, threw a deeper gloom over my heart. My +husband usually came home before dark. Now he was away beyond his +accustomed hour. Instead of returning gladly to meet his young wife, +he was staying away, because that young wife had thrown off the +attractions of love and presented to him features harsh and +repulsive. How anxiously I longed to hear the sound of his +footsteps—to see his face—to hear his voice! The moment of his +entrance I resolved should be the moment of my humble confession of +wrong—of my faithful promise never again to set up my will +determinedly in opposition to his judgment. But minute after minute +passed after nightfall—hours succeeded minutes—and these rolled on +until the whole night wore away, and he came not back to me. As the +gray light of morning stole into my chamber, a terrible fear took +hold of me, that made my heart grow still in my bosom—the fear that +he would never return—that I had driven him off from me. Alas! this +fear was too nigh the truth. The whole of that day passed, and the +next and the next, without any tidings. No one had seen him since he +left me. An anxious excitement spread among all his friends. The +only account I could give of him, was, that he had parted from me in +good health, and in a sane mind. +</P> + +<P> +"A week rolled by, and still no word came. I was nearly distracted. +What I suffered, no tongue can tell, no heart conceive. I have often +wondered that I did not become insane but from this sad condition I +was saved. Through all, my reason, though often trembling, did not +once forsake me. It was on the tenth day from that upon which we had +jarred so heavily as to be driven widely asunder, that a letter came +to me, post-marked New York, and endorsed 'In haste.' My hands +trembled so that I could with difficulty break the seal. The +contents were to the effect that my husband had been lying for +several days at one of the hotels there, very ill, but now past the +crisis of his disease, and thought by the physician to be out of +danger. The writer urged me, from my husband, to come on +immediately. In eight hours from the time I received that letter, I +was in New York. Alas! it was too late; the disease had returned +with double violence, and snapped the feeble thread of life. I never +saw my husband's living face again." +</P> + +<P> +The self-possession of Mrs. Cleaveland, at this part of her +narrative, gave way. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed +violently, while the tears came trickling through her fingers. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Laura," she resumed, after the lapse of many minutes, +looking up as she spoke, with a clear eye, and a sober, but placid +countenance, "it is for your sake that I have turned my gaze +resolutely back. May the painful history I have given you make a +deep impression upon your heart; let it warn you of the sunken rock +upon which my bark foundered. Avoid carefully, religiously avoid +setting yourself in opposition to your husband; should he prove +unreasonable or arbitrary, nothing is to be gained, and every thing +lost by contention. By gentleness, by forbearance, by even suffering +wrong at times, you will be able to win him over to a better spirit: +an opposite course will as assuredly put thorns in your pillow as +you adopt it. Look at the unhappy condition of the friends you have +named; their husbands are, in their eyes, exacting, domineering +tyrants. But this need not be. Let them act truly the woman's part. +Let them not oppose, but yield, and they will find that their +present tyrants' will become their lovers. Above all, never, under +any circumstances, either jestingly or in earnest, say '<I>I will</I>,' +when you are opposed. That declaration is never made without its +robbing the wife of a portion of her husband's confidence and love; +its utterance has dimmed the fire upon many a smiling hearth-stone." +</P> + +<P> +Laura could not reply; the relation of her aunt had deeply shocked +her feelings. But the words she had uttered sank into her heart; and +when her trial came—when she was tempted to set her will in +opposition to her husband's, and resolutely to contend for what she +deemed right, a thought of Mrs. Cleaveland's story would put a seal +upon her lips. It was well. The character of Henry Armour too nearly +resembled that of Mr. Cleaveland: he could illy have brooked a +wife's opposition; but her tenderness, her forbearance, her devoted +love, bound her to him with cords that drew closer and closer each +revolving year. She never opposed him further than to express a +difference of opinion when such a difference existed, and its +utterance was deemed useful; and she carefully avoided, on all +occasions, the doing of any thing of which he in the smallest degree +disapproved. The consequence was, that her opinion was always +weighed by him carefully, and often deferred to. A mutual confidence +and a mutual dependence upon each other gradually took the place of +early reserves, and now they sweetly draw together—now they +smoothly glide along the stream of life blessed indeed in all their +marriage relations. Who will say that Laura did not act a wise part? +Who will say that in sacrificing pride and self-will, she did not +gain beyond all calculation? No one, surely. She is not her +husband's slave, but his companion and equal. She has helped to +reform and remodel his character, and make him less arbitrary, less +self-willed, less disposed to be tyrannical. In her mild +forbearance, he has seen a beauty more attractive far than lip or +cheek, or beaming eye. +</P> + +<P> +Instead of looking upon his wife as below him, Henry Armour feels +that she is his superior, and as such he tenderly regards and +lovingly cherishes her. He never thinks of obedience from her, but +rather studies to conform himself to her most lightly-spoken wish. +To be thus united, what wife will not for a time sacrifice her +feelings when her young self-willed husband so far forgets himself +as to become exacting! The temporary loss will turn out in the +future to be a great gain. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="influence"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. +</H3> + +<P> +"THERE come the children from school," said Aunt Mary, looking from +the window. "Just see that Clarence! he'll have Henry in the gutter. +I never saw just such another boy; why can't he come quietly along +like other children? There! now he must stop to throw stones at the +pigs. That boy'll give you the heart-ache yet, Anna." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Hartley made no reply, but laid aside her work quietly and left +the room to see that their dinner was ready. In a few minutes the +street-door was thrown open, and the children came bounding in full +of life, and noisy as they could be. +</P> + +<P> +"Where is your coat, Clarence?" she asked, in a pleasant tone, +looking her oldest boy in the face. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I forgot!" he replied, cheerfully; and turning quickly, he ran +down stairs, and lifting his coat from where, in his thoughtlessness, +he had thrown it upon the floor, hung it up in its proper place, and +then sprang up the stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't dinner ready yet?" he said, with fretful impatience, his +whole manner changing suddenly. "I'm hungry." +</P> + +<P> +"It will be ready in a few minutes, Clarence." +</P> + +<P> +"I want it now. I'm hungry." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you ever hear of the man," said Mrs. Hartley, in a voice that +showed no disturbance of mind, "who wanted the sun to rise an hour +before its time?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, mother. Tell me about it, won't you?" +</P> + +<P> +All impatience had vanished from the boy's face. +</P> + +<P> +"There was a man who had to go upon a journey; the stage-coach was +to call for him at sun-rise. More than an hour before it was time +for the sun to be up, the man was all ready to go, and for the whole +of that hour he walked the floor impatiently, grumbling at the sun +because he did not rise. 'I'm all ready, and I want to be going,' he +said. 'It's time the sun was up, long ago.' Don't you think he was a +very foolish man?" +</P> + +<P> +Clarence laughed, and said he thought the man was very foolish +indeed. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think he was more foolish than you were just now for +grumbling because dinner wasn't ready?" +</P> + +<P> +Clarence laughed again, and said he did not know. Just then Hannah, +the cook, brought in the waiter with the children's dinner upon it. +Clarence sprang for a chair, and drew it hastily and noisily to the +table. +</P> + +<P> +"Try and see if you can't do that more orderly, my dear," his mother +said, in a quiet voice, looking at him, as she spoke, with a steady +eye. +</P> + +<P> +The boy removed his chair, and then replaced it gently. +</P> + +<P> +"That is much better, my son." +</P> + +<P> +And thus she corrected his disorderly habits, quieted his impatient +temper, and checked his rudeness, without showing any disturbance. +This she had to do daily. At almost every meal she found it +necessary to repress his rude impatience. It was line upon line, and +precept upon precept. But she never tired, and rarely permitted +herself to show that she was disturbed, no matter how deeply grieved +she was at times over the wild and reckless spirit of her boy. +</P> + +<P> +On the next day she was not very well; her head ached badly all the +morning. Hearing the children in the passage when they came in from +school at noon, she was, rising from the bed where she had lain +down, to attend to them and give them their dinners, when Aunt Mary +said—"Don't get up, Anna, I will see to the children." +</P> + +<P> +It was rarely that Mrs. Hartley let any one do for them what she +could do herself, for no one else could manage the unhappy temper of +Clarence; but so violent was the pain in her head, that she let Aunt +Mary go, and sank back upon the pillow from which she had arisen. A +good deal of noise and confusion continued to reach her ears, from +the moment the children came in. At length a loud cry and passionate +words from Clarence caused her to rise up quickly and go over to the +dining-room. All was confusion there, and Aunt Mary out of humour +and scolding prodigiously. Clarence was standing up at the table, +looking defiance at her, on account of some interference with his +strong self-will. The moment the boy saw his mother, his countenance +changed, and a look of confusion took the place of anger. +</P> + +<P> +"Come over to my room, Clarence," she said, in a low voice; there +was sadness in its tones, that made him feel sorry that he had given +vent so freely to his ill-temper. +</P> + +<P> +"What was the matter, my son?" Mrs. Hartley asked, as soon as they +were alone, taking Clarence by the hand and looking steadily at him. +</P> + +<P> +"Aunt Mary wouldn't help me when I asked her." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"She would help Henry first." +</P> + +<P> +"No doubt she had a reason for it. Do you know her reason?" +</P> + +<P> +"She said he was youngest." Clarence pouted out his lips, and spoke +in a very disagreeable tone. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you think that was a very good reason?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've as good a right to be helped first as he has." +</P> + +<P> +"Let us see if that is so. You and Marien and Henry came in from +school, all hungry and anxious for your dinners. Marien is +oldest—she, one would suppose, from the fact that she is oldest, +would be better able to feel for her brothers, and be willing to see +their wants supplied before her own. You are older than Henry, and +should feel for him in the same way. No doubt this was Aunt Mary's +reason for helping Henry first. Had she helped Marien?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"Did Marien complain?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"No one complained but my unhappy Clarence. Do you know why you +complained? I can tell you, as I have often told you before; it is +because you indulge in very selfish feelings. All who do so, make +themselves miserable. If, instead of wanting Aunt Mary to help you +first, you had, from a love of your little brother, been willing to +see him first attended to, you would have enjoyed a real pleasure. +If you had said—'Aunt Mary, help Harry first,' I am sure Henry +would have said instantly—' No, Aunt Mary, help brother Clarence +first.' How pleasant this would have been! how happy would all of us +have felt at thus seeing two little brothers generously preferring +one another!" +</P> + +<P> +There was an unusual degree of tenderness, even sadness in the voice +of his mother, that affected Clarence; but he struggled with his +feelings. When, however, she resumed, and said—"I have felt quite +sick all the morning; my head has ached badly—so badly that I have +had to lie down. I always give you your dinners when you come home, +and try to make you comfortable. To-day I let Aunt Mary do it, +because I felt so sick; but I am sorry that I did not get up, sick +as I was, and do it myself; then I might have prevented this unhappy +outbreak of my boy's unruly temper, that has made not only my head +ache ten times as badly as it did, but my heart ache also"— +</P> + +<P> +Clarence burst into tears, and throwing his arms ground his mother's +neck, wept bitterly. +</P> + +<P> +"I will try and be good, dear mother," he said. "I do try sometimes, +but it seems that I can't." +</P> + +<P> +"You must always try, my dear son. Now dry up your tears, and go out +and get your dinner. Or, if you would rather I should go with you, I +will do so." +</P> + +<P> +"No, dear mother," replied the boy, affectionately, "you are sick; +you must not go. I will be good." +</P> + +<P> +Clarence kissed his mother again, and then returned quietly to the +dining-room. +</P> + +<P> +"Naughty boy!" said Aunt Mary, as he entered, looking sternly at +him. +</P> + +<P> +A bitter retort came instantly to the tongue of Clarence, but he +checked himself with a strong effort, and took his place at the +table. Instead of soothing the quick-tempered boy, Aunt Mary chafed +him by her words and manner during the whole meal, and it was only +the image of his mother's tearful face, and the remembrance that she +was sick, that restrained an outbreak of his passionate temper. +</P> + +<P> +When Clarence left the table, he returned to his mother's room, and +laid his head upon the pillow where her's was resting. +</P> + +<P> +"I love you, mother," he said, affectionately, "you are good. But I +hate Aunt Mary." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, Clarence; you must not say that you hate Aunt Mary, for +Aunt Mary is very kind to you. You mustn't hate anybody." +</P> + +<P> +"She isn't kind to me, mother. She calls me a bad boy, and says +every thing to make me angry when I want to be good." +</P> + +<P> +"Think, my son, if there is not some reason for Aunt Mary calling +you a bad boy. You know yourself, that you act very naughtily +sometimes, and provoke Aunt Mary—a great deal." +</P> + +<P> +"But she said I was a naughty boy when I went out just now, and I +was sorry for what I had done, and wanted to be good." +</P> + +<P> +"Aunt Mary didn't know that you were sorry, I am sure. When she +called you 'naughty boy,' what did you say?" +</P> + +<P> +"I was going to say 'You're a fool!' but I didn't. I tried hard not +to let my tongue say the bad words, though it wanted to." +</P> + +<P> +"Why did you try not to say them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because it would have been wrong, and would have made you feel +sorry; and I love you." Again the repentant boy kissed her. His eyes +were full of tears, and so were the eyes of his mother. +</P> + +<P> +While talking over this incident with her husband, Mrs. Hartley +said—"Were not all these impressions so light, I would feel +encouraged. The boy has warm and tender feelings, but I fear that +his passionate temper and selfishness will, like evil weeds, +completely check their growth." +</P> + +<P> +"The case is bad enough, Anna, but not so bad, I hope, as you fear. +These good affections are never active in vain. They impress the +mind with an indelible impression. In after years the remembrance of +them will revive the states they produced, and give strength to good +desires and intentions. Amid all his irregularities and wanderings +from good, in after-life, the thoughts of his mother will restore +the feelings he had to-day, and draw him back from evil with cords +of love that cannot be broken. The good now implanted will remain, +and, like ten just men, save the city. In most instances where men +abandon themselves finally to evil courses, it will be found that +the impressions made in childhood were not of the right kind; that +the mother's influence was not what it should have been. For myself, +I am sure that a different mother would have made me a different +man. When a boy, I was too much like Clarence; but the tenderness +with which my mother always treated me, and the unimpassioned but +earnest manner in which she reproved and corrected my faults, +subdued my unruly temper. When I became restless or impatient, she +always had a book to read to me, or a story to tell, or had some +device to save me from myself. My father was neither harsh nor +indulgent towards me; I cherish his memory with respect and love; +but I have different feelings when I think of my mother. I often +feel, even now, as if she were near me—as if her cheek were laid to +mine. My father would place his hand upon my head caressingly, but +my mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did not expect my +father to do more—I do not know that I would have loved him had he +done more; for him it was a natural expression of affection; but no +act is too tender for a mother. Her kiss upon my cheek, her warm +embrace, are all felt now; and the older I grow, the more holy seem +the influences that surrounded me in childhood." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="patience"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE POWER OF PATIENCE. +</H3> + +<P> +I HAVE a very excellent friend, who married some ten years ago, and +now has her own cares and troubles in a domestic establishment +consisting of her husband and herself, five children, and two +servants. Like a large majority of those similarly situated, Mrs. +Martinet finds her natural stock of patience altogether inadequate +to the demand therefor; and that there is an extensive demand will +be at once inferred when I mention that four of her five children +are boys. +</P> + +<P> +I do not think Mrs. Martinet's family government by any means +perfect, though she has certainly very much improved it, and gets on +with far more comfort to herself and all around her than she did. +For the improvement at which I have hinted, I take some credit to +myself, though I am by no means certain, that, were I situated as my +friend is, I should govern my family as well as she governs hers. I +am aware that a maiden lady, like myself, young or old, it matters +not to tell the reader which, can look down from the quiet regions +where she lives, and see how easy it would be for the wife and +mother to reduce all to order in her turbulent household. But I am +at the same time conscious of the difficulties that beset the wife +and mother in the incessant, exhausting, and health-destroying +nature of her duties, and how her mind, from these causes, must +naturally lose its clear-seeing qualities when most they are needed, +and its calm and even temper when its exercise is of most +consequence. Too little allowance, I am satisfied, is made for the +mother, who, with a shattered nervous system, and suffering too, +often, from physical prostration, is ever in the midst of her little +family of restless spirits, and compelled to administer to their +thousand wants, to guide, guard, protect, govern, and restrain their +evil passions, when of all things, repose and quiet of body and +mind, for even a brief season, would be the greatest blessing she +could ask. +</P> + +<P> +I have seen a wife and mother, thus situated, betrayed into a hasty +expression, or lose her self-command so far as to speak with fretful +impatience to a child who rather needed to be soothed by a calmly +spoken word; and I have seen her even-minded husband, who knew not +what it was to feel a pain, or to suffer from nervous prostration, +reprove that wife with a look that called the tears to her eyes. She +was wrong, but he was wrong in a greater degree. The over-tried wife +needed her husband's sustaining patience, and gently spoken counsel, +not his cold reproof. +</P> + +<P> +Husbands, as far as my observation gives me the ability to judge, +have far less consideration for, and patience with their wives, than +they are entitled to receive. If any should know best the wife's +trials, sufferings, and incessant exhausting duties, it is the +husband, and he, of all others, should be the last to censure, if, +from very prostration of body and mind, she be sometimes betrayed +into hasty words, that generally do more harm among children and +domestics than total silence in regard to what is wrong. But this is +a digression. +</P> + +<P> +One day, I called to see Mrs. Martinet, and found her in a very +disturbed state of mind. +</P> + +<P> +"I am almost worried to death, Kate!" she said, soon after I came +in. +</P> + +<P> +"You look unhappy," I returned. "What has happened?" +</P> + +<P> +"What is always happening," she replied. "Scarcely a day passes over +my head that my patience is not tried to the utmost. I must let +every body in the house do just as he or she likes, or else there is +a disturbance. I am not allowed to speak out my own mind, without +some one's being offended." +</P> + +<P> +"It is a great trial, as well as responsibility to have the charge +of a family," I remarked. +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, and you may well say that. No one knows what it is but she +who has the trial. The greatest trouble is with your domestics. As a +class, they are, with few exceptions, dirty, careless, and impudent. +I sometimes think it gives them pleasure to interfere with your +household arrangements and throw all into disorder. This seems +especially to be the spirit of my present cook. My husband is +particular about having his meals at the hour, and is never pleased +when irregularities occur, although he does not often say any thing; +this I told Hannah, when she first came, and have scolded her about +being behindhand a dozen times since; and yet we do not have a meal +at the hour oftener than two or three times a week. +</P> + +<P> +"This morning, Mr. Martinet asked me if I wouldn't be particular in +seeing that dinner was on the table exactly at two o'clock. As soon +as he was gone, I went down into the kitchen and said, 'Do, for +mercy's sake, Hannah, have dinner ready at the hour to-day. Mr. +Martinet particularly desires it.' Hannah made no answer. It is one +of her disagreeable habits, when you speak to her. 'Did you hear +me?' I asked, quite out of patience with her. The creature looked up +at me with an impudent face and said, pertly, 'I'm not deaf.' 'Then, +why didn't you answer me when I spoke? It's a very ugly habit that +you have of not replying when any one addresses you. How is it to be +known that you hear what is said?' The spirit in which Hannah met my +request to have dinner ready in time, satisfied me that she would so +manage as to throw it off beyond the regular hour. I left the +kitchen feeling, as you may well suppose, exceedingly worried." +</P> + +<P> +Just then the door of the room in which we were sitting was thrown +open with a bang, and in bounded Harry, Mrs. Martinet's eldest +boy—a wild young scape-grace of a fellow—and whooping out some +complaint against his sister. His mother, startled and annoyed by +the rude interruption, ordered him to leave the room instantly. But +Harry stood his ground without moving an eyelash. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you hear?" And Mrs. Martinet stamped with her foot, to give +stronger emphasis to her words. +</P> + +<P> +"Lizzy snatched my top-cord out of my hands, and won't give it to +me!" +</P> + +<P> +"Go out of this room!" +</P> + +<P> +"Shan't Lizzy give me my top-cord?" +</P> + +<P> +"Go out, I tell you!" +</P> + +<P> +"I want my top-cord." +</P> + +<P> +"Go out!" +</P> + +<P> +My poor friend's face was red, and her voice trembling with passion. +With each renewed order for the child to leave the room, she stamped +with her foot upon the floor. Harry, instead of going out as he was +directed to do, kept advancing nearer and nearer, as he repeated his +complaint, until he came close up to where we were sitting. +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't I tell you to go out!" exclaimed his mother, losing all +patience. +</P> + +<P> +As she spoke, she arose hastily, and seizing him by the arm, +dragged, rather than led him from the room. +</P> + +<P> +"I never saw such a child!" she said, returning after closing the +door upon Harry. "Nothing does but force. You might talk to him all +day without moving him an inch, when he gets in one of these moods." +</P> + +<P> +Bang went the door open, and, "I want my top-cord!" followed +in louder and more passionate tones than before. +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't it beyond all endurance!" cried my friend, springing up and +rushing across the room. +</P> + +<P> +The passionate child, who had been spoiled by injudicious +management, got a sound whipping and was shut up in a room by +himself. After performing this rather unpleasant task, Mrs. Martinet +returned to the parlour, flushed, excited, and trembling in every +nerve. +</P> + +<P> +"I expect that boy will kill me yet," she said, as she sank, +panting, into a chair. "It is surprising how stubborn and +self-willed he grows. I don't know how to account for it. He never +has his own way—I never yield an inch to him when he gets in these +terrible humours. Oh, dear! I feel sometimes like giving up in +despair." +</P> + +<P> +I did not make a reply, for I could not say any thing that would not +have been a reproof of her impatient temper. After my friend had +grown calmer, she renewed her narrative about the dinner. +</P> + +<P> +"As I was saying, when that boy interrupted us, I left the kitchen +very much worried, and felt worried all the morning. Several times I +went down to see how things were coming on, but it was plain that +Hannah did not mean to have dinner at the hour. When it was time to +put the meat on to roast, the fire was all down in the range. Half +an hour was lost in renewing it. As I expected, when my husband came +home for his dinner, at the regular time, the table was not even +set. +</P> + +<P> +"'Bless me!' he said, 'isn't dinner ready? I told you that I wished +it at the hour, particularly. I have a business engagement at +half-past two, that must be met. It is too bad! I am out of all +patience with these irregularities. I can't wait, of course.' +</P> + +<P> +"And saying this, Mr. Martinet turned upon his heel and left the +house. As you may suppose, I did not feel very comfortable, nor in a +very good humour with Hannah. When she made her appearance to set +the table, which was not for a quarter of an hour, I gave her about +as good a setting down, I reckon, as she ever had in her life. Of +course, I was paid back in impudence which I could not stand, and +therefore gave her notice to quit. If ever a woman was tried beyond +endurance, I am. My very life is becoming a burden to me. The worst +part of it is, there is no prospect of a change for the better. +Things, instead of growing better, grow worse." +</P> + +<P> +"It is not so bad as that, I hope," I could not help remarking. +"Have you never thought of a remedy for the evils of which you +complain?" +</P> + +<P> +"A remedy, Kate! What remedy is there?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Martinet looked at me curiously. +</P> + +<P> +"If not a remedy, there is, I am sure, a palliative," I returned, +feeling doubtful of the effect of what I had it in my mind to +express. +</P> + +<P> +"What is the remedy or palliative of which you speak. Name it, for +goodness' sake! Like a drowning man, I will clutch it, if it be but +a straw." +</P> + +<P> +"The remedy is <I>patience</I>." My voice slightly faltered as I spoke. +</P> + +<P> +Instantly the colour deepened on the face of Mrs. Martinet. But our +close intimacy, and her knowledge of the fact that I was really a +friend, prevented her from being offended. +</P> + +<P> +"Patience!" she said, after she had a little recovered herself. +"Patience is no remedy. To endure is not to cure." +</P> + +<P> +"In that, perhaps, you are mistaken," I returned. "The effect of +patience is to cure domestic evils. A calm exterior and a gentle, +yet firm voice, will in nine cases in ten, effect more than the most +passionate outbreak of indignant feelings. I have seen it tried over +and over again, and I am sure of the effect." +</P> + +<P> +"I should like to have seen the effect of a gentle voice upon my +Harry, just now." +</P> + +<P> +"Forgive me for saying," I answered to this, "that in my opinion, if +you had met his passionate outbreak at the wrong he had suffered in +losing his top-cord, in a different manner from what you did, that +the effect would have been of a like different character." +</P> + +<P> +My friend's face coloured more deeply, and her lips trembled. But +she had good sense, and this kept her from being offended at what I +said. I went on— +</P> + +<P> +"There is no virtue more necessary in the management of a household +than patience. It accomplishes almost every thing. Yet it is a hard +virtue to practise, and I am by no means sure that, if I were in +your place, I would practise it any better than you do. But it is of +such vital importance to the order, comfort, and well-being of a +family, to be able patiently and calmly to meet every disturbing and +disorderly circumstance, that it is worth a struggle to attain the +state of mind requisite to do so. To meet passion with passion does +no good, but harm. The mind, when disturbed from any cause, is +disturbed more deeply when it meets an opposing mind in a similar +state. This is as true of children as of grown persons, and perhaps +more so, for their reason is not matured, and therefore there is +nothing to balance their minds. It is also more true of those who +have not learned, from reason, to control themselves, as is the case +with too large a portion of our domestics; who need to be treated +with almost as much forbearance and consideration as children." +</P> + +<P> +These remarks produced a visible effect upon Mrs. Martinet. She +became silent and reflective, and continued so, to a great extent, +during the half-hour that I remained. +</P> + +<P> +Nearly two weeks elapsed before I called upon my friend again. I +found her, happily, in a calmer state of mind than upon my previous +visit. We were in the midst of a pleasant conversation, half an hour +after I had come in, when one of the children, a boy between seven +and eight years old, came into the room and made some complaint +against his brother. The little fellow was excited, and broke in +upon our quiet chitchat with a rude jar that I felt quite sensibly. +I expected, of course, to hear him ordered from the room instantly. +That had been my friend's usual proceeding when these interruptions +occurred; at least it had been so when I happened to be a visitor. +But instead of this, she said in a low, mild, soothing voice, +</P> + +<P> +"Well, never mind, Willy. You stay in the parlour with us, where +Harry can't trouble you." +</P> + +<P> +This was just the proposition, above all others, to please the +child. His face brightened, and he came and nestled up closely to +his mother, who was sitting on a corner of the sofa. Drawing an arm +around him, she went on with the remarks she happened to be making +when the interruption of his entrance occurred. No very long time +elapsed before the parlour door flew open, and Harry entered, +asking, as he did so, in a loud voice, for Willy. +</P> + +<P> +"Willy is here. What do you want with him?" said the mother, in a +quiet, but firm tone. +</P> + +<P> +"I want him to come and play." +</P> + +<P> +"You were not kind to Willy, and he doesn't wish to play with you." +</P> + +<P> +"Come, Willy, and play, and I will be kind," said Harry. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you let me be the master sometimes?" asked the little fellow, +raising himself up from where he remained seated beside his mother. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you shall be master, sometimes." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I'll play," and Willy sprang from the sofa and bounded from +the room, as happy as he could be. +</P> + +<P> +The mother smiled, and looking into my face, as soon as we were +alone, said— +</P> + +<P> +"You see, Kate, that I am trying your remedy, patience." +</P> + +<P> +"With most happy results, I am glad to see." +</P> + +<P> +"With better results than I could have believed, certainly. +Gentleness, consideration, and firmness, I find do a great deal, and +their exercise leaves my own mind in a good state. There is a power +in patience that I did not believe it possessed. I can do more by a +mildly spoken word, than by the most emphatic command uttered in a +passion. This is the experience of a few weeks. But, alas! Kate, to +be able to exercise patience—how hard a thing that is! It requires +constant watchfulness and a constant effort. Every hour I find +myself betrayed into the utterance of some hasty word, and feel its +powerlessness compared to those that are most gently spoken." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you get on with your domestics any better than you did?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes! Far better." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose you sent Hannah away some time ago?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. I have her yet." +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and she does very well." +</P> + +<P> +"Does she get your meals ready in time?" +</P> + +<P> +"She is punctual to the minute." +</P> + +<P> +"Really she must have changed for the better! And is this, too, the +result of patience and forbearance on your part?" +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose so. What you said in regard to having patience, at your +last visit, struck me forcibly, and caused me to feel humbled and +self-condemned. The more I thought of it, the more satisfied was I +that you were right. But it was one thing to see the use of +patience, and another thing to exercise it. To be patient amid the +turbulence, ill-tempers, and disobedience of children, and the +irregularities, carelessness and neglect of domestics, seemed a +thing impossible. I was in this state of doubt as to my ability to +exercise the virtue so much needed in my household, when Hannah came +to the door of the room where I was sitting in no very happy mood, +and notified me of some want in the kitchen in an exceedingly +provoking way. I was about replying sharply and angrily; but +suddenly checking myself, I said in a quiet, mild way, 'Very well, +Hannah. I will see that it is supplied.' +</P> + +<P> +"The girl stood for some moments, looking at me with an expression +of surprise on her face, and then walked away. This was a victory +over myself, and I felt, also, a victory over her. Not half an hour +elapsed, before, on passing near the kitchen, she said to me, in a +very respectful manner: +</P> + +<P> +"'I forgot to tell you, this morning, that the tea was all out. But +I can run round to the store and get some in a few minutes.' +</P> + +<P> +"'Do so, if you please, Hannah,' I returned, without evincing the +slightest feeling of annoyance at her neglect; 'and try, if you can, +to have tea ready precisely at six o'clock.' +</P> + +<P> +"'I will have it ready, ma'am,' she replied. And it was ready. +</P> + +<P> +"Had I not exercised patience and self-control, the interview would +have been something after this fashion: about ten minutes before +tea-time, Hannah would have come to me and said, with provoking +coolness— +</P> + +<P> +"'The tea's all out.' +</P> + +<P> +"To which I would have replied sharply— +</P> + +<P> +"'Why, in the name of goodness, did not you say so this morning? You +knew that you had used the last drawing! I declare you are the most +provoking creature I ever knew. You'll have to go to the store and +get some.' +</P> + +<P> +"'I'm not fit to be seen in the street,' she would in all +probability have replied. +</P> + +<P> +"And then I, losing all patience, would have soundly scolded her, +and gained nothing but a sick-headache, perhaps, for my pains. Tea, +in all probability, would have been served at about eight o'clock. +You see the difference." +</P> + +<P> +"And a very material one it is." +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't it? As you well said, there is a power in patience undreamed +of by those who seek not its exercise. Next morning, when I had any +occasion to speak to Hannah, I did so with much mildness, and if I +had occasion to find fault, requested a change rather than +enunciated a reproof. The girl changed as if by magic. She became +respectful in her manner toward me, and evinced a constant anxiety +to do every thing as I wished to have it done. Not once since have +we had a meal as much as ten minutes later than the appointed time." +</P> + +<P> +I could not but express the happiness I felt at the change, and urge +my excellent friend to persevere. This she has done, and the whole +aspect of things in her family has changed. +</P> + +<P> +There are times, however, when, from ill-health, or a return of old +states, she recedes again into fretfulness; but the reaction upon +her is so immediate and perceptible, that she is driven in +self-defence to patience and forbearance, the result of which is +order and quiet in her family just in the degree that patience and +forbearance are exercised. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="oldman"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AN OLD MAN'S RECOLLECTIONS. +</H3> + +<P> +"I AM not a <I>very</I> old man," said a venerable friend to me, one day, +"yet my head has become whitened and my cheeks furrowed:—and often, +as I pause and lean upon my staff, at the corners of the streets, +the present reality gives place to dreams of the past, and I see +here, instead of the massive pile of brick and marble, the low frame +dwelling, and there, in place of the lines of tall warehouses, +humble tenements. If, in my aimless wanderings about the city, I +turn my steps towards the suburbs, I find that change, too, has been +there. I miss the woods and fields where once, with the gay +companions of early years, I spent many a summer hour. Beautiful +dwellings have sprung up, it seems to me as if by magic, where but +yesterday I plucked fruit from overladen branches, or flung myself +to rest among the tall grass or ripening grain. +</P> + +<P> +"But other changes than this have marked the passage of time. +Changes that cause them to sink into obscurity in comparison. +Thousands in our goodly city have passed from the cradle to the +grave, during the years that have been allotted to me; and thousands +have proved that all the promises of early years were vain. All +external mutations would attract but little attention, did they not +recall other and more important changes. Thought and feeling have +put on forms, as new and strange, but not, alas! so full of happy +indications. Prosperity has crowned the toil and enterprise of our +citizens; but how few of the many who were prosperous when I was in +my prime are among the wealthy now! How few of the families that +filled the circles of fashion then, have left any of their scattered +members to grace the glittering circles now! The wheel of fortune +has ceased not its revolutions for a moment. Hopes that once spread +their gay leaves to the pleasant airs have been blighted and +scattered by the chilling winds of adversity. +</P> + +<P> +"Pausing and leaning upon my staff, as I have said, I often muse +thus, when some object recalls the memory of one and another who +have finished their course and been gathered to their fathers. In +every city and village, wherever there is human life, with its evil +passions and good affections, there are histories to stir the heart +and unseal the fountains of tears. Truth, it is said, is strange, +stranger than fiction; and never was there a truer sentiment +uttered. In all the fictions that I have read, nothing has met my +eye so strange and heart-stirring as the incidents in real life that +have transpired in the families of some of our own citizens. Any +one, of years and observation, in any city, will bear a like +testimony. The circumstance of their actual occurrence, and the fact +that the present reality diminishes, from many causes, our surprise +at events, tend to make us think lightly of what is going on around +us. And, besides this, we ordinarily see only the surface of +society. The writer of fiction unveils the mind and heart of those +he brings into action, and we see all. We perceive their thoughts +and feel their emotions. But, if we could look into the bosoms of +those we meet daily, and read there the hopes and fears that excite +or depress, we should perceive all around us living histories of +human passion and emotion that would awaken up our most active +sympathies. All this, however, is hidden from our eyes. And it is +only, in most instances, when the present becomes the past, that we +are permitted to lift the veil, and look at the reality beneath." +</P> + +<P> +We were sitting near a window overlooking one of the principal +streets of our city, and a slight noise without, at this time, +attracted our attention. +</P> + +<P> +"There she is again. Poor Flora! How my heart aches for you!" my +companion suddenly ejaculated, in a tone of deep sympathy, after +gazing into the street for a moment or two. +</P> + +<P> +"Who is it?" I asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you see that poor creature, slowly moving along just opposite?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Twenty years ago, there was not a gayer girl in the city; nor one +more truly beloved by all." +</P> + +<P> +"She?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Nor one of fairer hopes." +</P> + +<P> +"Hope has indeed sadly mocked her!" said I, giving almost +involuntary utterance to the thought that instantly passed through +my mind. Just then I caught a glimpse of her face, that was partly +turned towards us. Though marked by disease and sorrow, it was yet +no common face. It still bore traces of womanly beauty, that no eye +could mistake. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor Flora! what a history of disappointed hopes and crushed +affections is thine! What a lesson for the young, the thoughtless, +the innocent!" the old man said, as he retired from the window. +</P> + +<P> +"Who is she?" I asked, after a brief pause. +</P> + +<P> +"You have seen that beautiful old mansion that stands in—street, +just above—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"It is now used as an extensive boarding-house; but in my younger +days, it was one of the most princely establishments in the city. It +then stood alone, and had attached to it beautifully laid-out +grounds, stocked with the rarest and richest plants, all in the +highest state of cultivation. No American workman could produce +furniture good enough for its aristocratic owner. Every thing was +bought in Paris, and upon the most extensive scale. And truly, the +internal arrangement of Mr. T—'s dwelling was magnificent, almost +beyond comparison at the time." +</P> + +<P> +"And was that the daughter of Mr. T—?" I asked, in surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, that was Flora T—," the old man said, in a voice that had +in it an expression of sad feeling, evidently conjured up by the +reminiscence. +</P> + +<P> +"You knew her in her better days?" +</P> + +<P> +"As well as I knew my own sister. She was one of the gentlest of her +sex. No one could meet her without loving her." +</P> + +<P> +"She married badly?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. That tells the whole secret of her present wretched condition. +Alas! how many a sweet girl have I seen dragged down, by a union +with some worthless wretch, undeserving the name of a man! There is +scarcely a wealthy family in our city, into which some such an one +has not insinuated himself, destroying the peace of all, and +entailing hopeless misery upon one all unfit to bear her changed +lot. The case of Flora is an extreme one. Her husband turned out to +be a drunkard, and her father's family became reduced in +circumstances, and finally every member of it either passed from +this world, or sank into a state of indigence, little above that of +her own. But the worst feature in this history of wretchedness is +the fact, that Flora, in sinking so low externally, lost that sweet +spirit of innocence which once gave a tone of so much loveliness to +her character. Her husband not only debased her condition, but +corrupted her mind. Oh, what a wreck she has become!" +</P> + +<P> +"How few families there are," said I, after a few moments, "as you +have justly remarked, the happiness of which has not been destroyed +by the marriage of a much loved and fondly cherished daughter and +sister, to one all unworthy of the heart whose best affections had +been poured out upon him like water." +</P> + +<P> +"The misery arising from this cause," the old man said, "is +incalculable. Nor does it always show itself in the extreme external +changes that have marked Flora T—'s sad history. I could take you +to many houses, fine houses too, and richly arrayed within, where +hearts are breaking in the iron grasp of a husband's unfeeling hand, +that contracts with a slow, torturing cruelty, keeping its victim +lingering day after day, week after week, month after month, and +year after year, looking and longing for the hour when the deep +quiet of the grave shall bring peace—sweet peace." +</P> + +<HR ALIGN="center" WIDTH="60%"> + +<P> +"As I thus look back through a period of some twenty, thirty, and +forty years," continued the old man, "noting the changes that have +taken place, and counting over the hopes that have been given like +chaff to the winds, I feel sad. And yet, amid all this change and +disappointment, there is much to stir the heart with feelings of +pleasure. A single instance I will relate: +</P> + +<P> +"A very intimate friend, a merchant, had three daughters, to whom he +gave an education the best that could be obtained. When the eldest +was but twenty, and the youngest fourteen, Mr. W— failed in +business. Every thing passed from his hands, and he was left +entirely penniless. Well advanced in years, with his current of +thoughts, from long habit, going steadily in one way, this shock +almost entirely prostrated him. He could not find courage to explain +to his daughters his condition, and the change that awaited them. +But they loved their father too well not to perceive that something +was wrong. Suspecting the true cause, the eldest, unknown to him, +waited upon one of his clerks at his residence, and received from +him a full statement of her father's affairs. She begged that +nothing might be concealed; and so obtained all the information that +the clerk could give, from which she saw plainly that the family +would be entirely broken up, and worse than all, perhaps scattered, +the children from their father. +</P> + +<P> +"On returning home, she took her younger sisters, and fully +explained to them the gloomy prospect in view. Then she explained to +them her plan, by which the force of the storm might be broken. In +it they all gladly acquiesced. This plan, they proceeded, unknown to +their father, to put into execution. +</P> + +<P> +"It was about one week after, that the old man came home so much +troubled in mind that he was compelled to leave the tea-table, his +food untasted. As he arose, his children arose also, and followed +him into the parlours. +</P> + +<P> +"'Dear father!' said the eldest, coming up to his side, and drawing +her arm around his neck—'do not be troubled. We know it all, and +are prepared for the worst.' +</P> + +<P> +"'Know what, my child?' he asked in surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"'Know that our condition is changed. And know more—that we are +prepared to meet that change with brave, true hearts.' +</P> + +<P> +"The tears came into the daughter's eyes as she said this—not tears +for her changed prospect—but tears for her father. +</P> + +<P> +"'And we are all prepared to meet it,' broke in the other two, +gathering around the old man. +</P> + +<P> +"'God bless you, my children!' Mr. W— murmured, with a voice +choked with emotion. 'But, you know not how low you have fallen. I +am a beggar!' +</P> + +<P> +"'Not quite,' was the now smiling reply of his eldest child. 'We +learned it all—and at once determined that we would do our part. +For two weeks, we have been out among our friends, and freely +related our plans and the reason for adopting them. The result is, +we obtained forty scholars to a school we have determined to open, +for teaching music, French, drawing, &c. You are not a beggar, dear +father! And never shall be, while you have three daughters to love +you!' +</P> + +<P> +"The old man's feelings gave way, and he wept like a child. He could +not object to the proposition of his children. The school was at +once opened, and is still conducted by the two youngest. It proved a +means of ample support to the family. To some men, the fact that +their children had been compelled to resort to daily labour, in any +calling, for a support, would have been deeply humiliating. Not so +to Mr. W—. That evidence of his daughters' love to him +compensated for all the changes which circumstances, uncontrolled by +himself, had effected." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="finis"> +THE END. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Home Scenes, and Home Influence, by T. S. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Home Scenes, and Home Influence + A Series of Tales and Sketches + +Author: T. S. Arthur + +Posting Date: August 18, 2009 [EBook #4629] +Release Date: November, 2003 +First Posted: February 20, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOME SCENES, AND HOME INFLUENCE *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + +HOME SCENES, AND HOME INFLUENCE. + +A Series of Tales and Sketches. + + +T. S. ARTHUR. + + + + +PHILADELPHIA: + +1854. + + + + + +PREFACE. + +MANY of the scenes presented in this volume are such as show the +mother's influence with her children; a few include the marriage +relation; and a few give other domestic pictures. In all will be +found, we trust, motives for self-denial and right action in the +various conditions of social life. Home is the centre of good as +well as of bad influence. How much, then, depends on those to whom +have been committed the sacred trust of giving to the home-circle +its true power over the heart! + +This volume makes the fifth in "ARTHUR'S LIBRARY FOR THE HOUSEHOLD." + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + TAKING COMFORT. + CHILDREN--A FAMILY SCENE. + LOSING ONE'S TEMPER. + TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS. + HAVEN'T THE CHANGE. + OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN. + THE MOTHER AND BOY. + THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. + IS SHE A LADY? + GOING INTO MOURNING. + IF THAT WERE MY CHILD. + I WILL! + A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. + THE POWER OF PATIENCE. + AN OLD MAN'S RECOLLECTIONS. + + + + + +HOME SCENES. + + + + +TAKING COMFORT. + + +"REALLY, this is comfortable!" said I, glancing around the +handsomely furnished parlour of my young friend Brainard, who had, a +few weeks before, ventured upon matrimony, and was now making his +first experiments in housekeeping. + +"Yes, it is comfortable," replied my friend. "The fact is, I go in +for comforts." + +"I'm afraid George is a little extravagant," said the smiling bride, +as she leaned towards her husband and looked tenderly into his face. + +"No, not extravagant, Anna," he returned; "all I want is to have +things comfortable. Comfort I look upon as one of the necessaries of +life, to which all are entitled. Don't you?" + +I was looking at a handsome new rose-wood piano when this question +was addressed to me, and thinking about its probable cost. + +"We should all make the best of what we have," I answered, a little +evasively; "and seek to be as comfortable as possible under all +circumstances." + +"Exactly. That's my doctrine," said Brainard. "I'm not rich, and +therefore don't expect to live in a palace, and have every thing +around me glittering with silver and gold; but, out of the little I +possess, shall endeavour to obtain the largest available dividend of +comfort. Ain't I right?" + +"Perhaps so." + +"You speak coldly," said my friend. "Don't you agree with me? Should +not every man try to be as comfortable as his means will permit?" + +"Yes, certainly." + +"Of course he should. Some men set a value upon money above every +thing else, and sacrifice all comfort to its accumulation; but I +don't belong to that class. Money is a good gift, because it is the +means of procuring natural blessings. I receive it thankfully, and +use it wisely. You see how I am beginning life." + +"I do." + +"Well, what do you think of it?" + +By this time my observation of things had become more particular, +and I saw many evidences of expenditures that indicated a lavish +spirit. + +"What rent do you pay?" I asked. + +"Three hundred." + +I shook my head. + +"Too much?" said Brainard. + +"I think so." + +"Perhaps it is a little high. But you can't get a genteel, +comfortable house, in a good neighbourhood, for any thing less." + +As it was my first visit to the young couple, who were but a few +weeks past their honey-moon, I did not feel like questioning the +propriety of my friend's conduct to the serious extent he was about +involving himself; and so evaded replying to this excuse for taking +at least a hundred dollars more rent upon himself than he was +justified in doing by his circumstances, he being simply a clerk, +with a salary of one thousand dollars. + +"Rents are high," was my apparently indifferent answer. + +"Too high," said he. "A man who wants a pleasant house has to pay +for it. This is my experience." + +The subject of conversation changed; I passed an agreeable evening; +at the close of which I left my friend and his lovely young bride in +their comfortable home. + +What I had seen and heard during the few hours spent with Brainard +made me fear that he was about committing a too common error. His +ideas of comfort were not in keeping with his circumstances. Some +days subsequently I saw my friend and his wife riding out in a +handsome vehicle, drawn by a gay horse. + +"Taking their comfort," said I, as I paused and looked upon the +happy young couple. + +Not long after, I saw them dashing off again to enjoy an afternoon's +ride. Next, I met them at a fashionable concert. + +"Have you been to the opera yet?" asked Brainard, leaning forward to +the seat that I occupied just in front of him. + +"No," was my answer. + +"Then there is a treat in store for you. We go twice, and sometimes +oftener, every week. Truffi, Benedetti, Rosi--oh! they are +enchanting." + +"Rather expensive," said I. + +"It does cost something," and Brainard shrugged his shoulders. "But +I think it's money well spent. You know that I go in for the +comforts of life." + +And he leaned back, while I thought I perceived a slight shadow flit +across his face. A singer came forward at the moment, and no more +was said. + +"It is possible," thought I, "in seeking after comfort, to get into +the wrong road. I am afraid my young friends are about committing +this error." + +I not only suggested as much to Brainard soon afterwards, but +actually presented a serious remonstrance against the course of life +he had adopted. But he only smiled at the fears I expressed, and +said he understood perfectly the nature of the ground he was +treading. Thus it is with most young persons. Be their views true or +false, they act upon them, in spite of all counsel from the more +experienced, and in the end reap their harvest of trouble or +pleasure, as the ease may be. Pride, which stimulates the desire to +make a certain appearance in the world, is generally more at fault +than a wish to secure the comforts of which my friend talked so +much. + +I had another acquaintance, by the name of Tyler, who was married +about the same time with Brainard. His tastes were as well +cultivated as those of the former, and his income was as large; yet, +in beginning the world, he had shown more prudence and a wise +forecast. I found him in a small, neat house, at a rent of one +hundred and seventy dollars. His furniture was not costly, but in +good taste and keeping with the house and his circumstances. As for +real comfort, as far as I could see, the preponderance was rather in +his favour. + +"This is really comfortable," said I, glancing around the room in +which he received me on the occasion of my first visit. + +"We think so," replied my friend, smiling. + +"Nothing very elegant, but as good as we can afford, and with that +we have made up our minds to be content." + +"If all the world were as wise, all the world would be happier," I +remarked. + +"Perhaps so," returned Tyler. "Brainard tried to get me into a house +like the one he occupies; but I thought it more prudent to cut my +garment according to my cloth. The larger your house, the more +costly your furniture and the higher your regular expenses. He +talked about having things comfortable, as he called it, and +enjoying life as he went along; but it would be poor comfort for me +to know that I was five or six hundred dollars in debt, and all the +while living beyond my income." + +"In debt? What do you mean by that?" said I. "It isn't possible that +Brainard has gone in debt for any of his fine furniture?" + +"It is very possible." + +"To the extent of five or six hundred dollars?" + +"Yes. The rose-wood piano he bought for his wife cost four hundred +dollars. It was purchased on six months' credit." + +"Foolish young man!" said I. + +"You may well say that. He thinks a great deal about the comforts of +life; but he is going the wrong way to secure them, in my opinion. +His parlour furniture, including the new piano, cost nearly one +thousand dollars; mine cost three hundred; and I'm sure I would not +exchange comforts with him. It isn't what is around us so much as +what is within us, that produces pleasure. A contented mind is said +to be a continual feast. If, in seeking to have things comfortable, +we create causes of disquietude, we defeat our own ends." + +"I wish our friend Brainard could see things in the same light," +said I. + +"Nothing but painful experience will open his eyes," remarked Tyler. + +And he was correct in this. Brainard continued to take his comfort +for a few months, although there was a gradual sinking in the +thermometer of his feelings as the time approached when the notes +given for a part of his furniture would fall due. The amount of +these notes was six hundred dollars, but he had not saved fifty +towards meeting the payments. The whole of his income had been used +in taking his comfort. + +"Why, Brainard!" said I, in a tone of surprise, on meeting him one +day, nearly six months after his marriage. "What has happened?" + +"Happened? Nothing. Why do you ask?" replied the young man. + +"You look troubled." + +"Do I?" He made an effort to smile. + +"Yes, you certainly do. What has gone wrong with you?" + +"Oh, nothing." And he tried to assume an air of indifference; but, +seeing me look incredulous, he added-- + +"Nothing particularly wrong. I'm only a little worried about money +matters. The fact is, I've got two or three notes to pay next week." + +"You have?" + +"Yes; and what is more, I haven't the means to lift them." + +"That is trouble," said I, shaking my head. + +"It's trouble for me. Oh, dear! I wish my income were larger. A +thousand dollars a year is too little." + +"Two persons ought to live on that sum very comfortably," I +remarked. + +"We can't, then; and I'm sure we are not extravagant. Ah, me!" + +"I spent the evening with our friend Tyler last week," said I. "His +salary is the same as yours, and he told me that he found it not +only sufficient for all his wants, but that he could lay by a couple +of hundred dollars yearly." + +"I couldn't live as he does," said Brainard, a little impatiently. + +"Why not?" + +"Do you think I would be cooped up in such a pigeon-box of a place?" + +"The house he lives in has six rooms, and he has but three in +family--your own number, I presume"-- + +"I have four," said Brainard, interrupting me. + +"Four?" + +"Yes. We have a cook and chambermaid." + +"Oh! Mrs. Tyler has but one domestic." + +"My wife wasn't brought up to be a household drudge," said Brainard, +contemptuously. + +"Your house has ten rooms in it, I believe?" said I, avoiding a +reply to his last remark. + +"It has." + +"But why should you pay rent for ten rooms, when you have use for +only five or six? Is not that a waste of money that might be applied +to a better purpose?" + +"Oh, I like a large house," said my friend, tossing his head, and +putting on an air of dignity and consequence. "A hundred dollars +difference in rent is a small matter compared with the increase of +comfort it brings." + +"But the expense doesn't stop with the additional rent," said I. + +"Why not?" + +"The larger the house, the more expensive the furniture. It cost you +a thousand dollars to fit up your handsome parlour?" said I. + +"Yes, I presume it did." + +"For what amount did you give your notes?" + +"For six hundred dollars." + +"On account of furniture?" + +"Yes." + +"Tyler furnished his parlour for three hundred." + +There was another gesture of impatience on the part of my young +friend, as he said-- + +"And such furnishing!" + +"Every thing looks neat and comfortable," I replied. + +"It may do for them, but it wouldn't suit us." + +"Whatever is accordant with our means should be made to suit us," +said I, seriously. "You are no better off than Tyler." + +"Do you think I could content myself in such a place?" he replied. + +"Contentment is only found in the external circumstances that +correspond to a man's pecuniary ability," was my answer to this. +"Which, think you, is best contented? Tyler, in a small house, +neatly furnished, and with a hundred dollars in his pocket; or you, +in your large house, with a debt of six hundred dollars hanging over +you?" + +There was an instant change in my friend's countenance. The question +seemed to startle him. He sighed, involuntarily. + +"But all this won't lift my notes," said he, after the silence of a +few minutes. "Good morning!" + +Poor fellow! I felt sorry for him. He had been buying comfort at +rather too large a price. + +The more Brainard cast about in his mind for the means of lifting +his notes, the more troubled did he become. + +"I might borrow," said he to himself; "but how am I to pay back the +sum?" + +To borrow, however, was better than to let his notes be dishonoured. +So Brainard, as the time of payment drew nearer and nearer, made an +effort to get from his friends the amount of money needed. + +But the effort was not successful. Some looked surprised when he +spoke of having notes to meet; others ventured a little good advice +on the subject of prudence in young men who are beginning the world, +and hinted that he was living rather too fast. None were prepared to +give him what he wanted. + +Troubled, mortified, and humbled, Brainard retired to his +comfortable home on the evening before the day on which his note +given for the piano was to fall due. Nearly his last effort to raise +money had been made, and he saw nothing but discredit, and what he +feared even worse than that before him. Involved as he was in debt, +there was no safety from the sharp talons of the law. They might +strike him at any moment, and involve all in ruin. + +Poor Brainard! How little pleasure did the sight of his large and +pleasant house give him as it came in view on his return home. It +stood, rather as a monument of extravagance and folly, than the +abode of sweet contentment. + +"Three hundred dollars rent!" he murmured. "Too much for me to pay." +And sighed deeply. + +He entered his beautiful parlour, and gazed around upon the elegant +furniture which he had provided as a means of comfort. All had lost +its power to communicate pleasure. There stood the costly piano, +once coveted and afterwards admired. But it possessed no charm to +lay the troubled spirit within him. He had bought it as a marriage +present for his wife, who had little taste for music, and preferred +reading or sewing to the blandishment of sweet sounds. And for this +toy--it was little more in his family--a debt of four hundred +dollars had been created. Had it brought him an equivalent in +comfort? Far, very far from it. + +As Brainard stood in his elegant parlour, with troubled heart and +troubled face, his wife came in with a light step. + +"George!" she exclaimed on seeing him, her countenance falling and +her voice expressing anxious concern. "What is the matter? Are you +sick?" + +"Oh, no!" he replied, affecting a lightness of tone. + +"But something is the matter, George," said the young wife, as she +laid her hand upon him and looked earnestly into his face. +"Something troubles you." + +"Nothing of any consequence. A mere trifle," returned Brainard, +evasively. + +"A mere trifle would not cloud your brow as it was clouded a moment +since, George." + +"Trifles sometimes affect us, more seriously than graver matters." +As Brainard said this, the shadows again deepened on his face. + +"If you have any troubles, dear, let me share them, and they will be +lighter." Anna spoke with much tenderness. + +"I hardly think your sharing my present trouble will lighten it," +said Brainard, forcing a smile, "unless, in so doing, you can put +some four hundred dollars into my empty pockets." + +Anna withdrew a pace from her husband, and looked at him doubtingly. + +"Do you speak in earnest?" said she. + +"In very truth I do. To-morrow I have four hundred dollars to pay; +but where the money is to come from, is more than I can tell." + +"How in the world has that happened?" inquired Mrs. Brainard. + +Involuntarily the eyes of her husband wandered towards the piano. +She saw their direction. Her own eyes fell to the floor, and she +stood silent for some moments--silent, but hurriedly thoughtful. +Then looking up, she said, in a hesitating voice-- + +"We can do without that." And she pointed towards the piano. + +"Without what?" asked Brainard, quickly. + +"The piano. It cost four hundred dollars. Sell it." + +"Never!" + +"Why not?" + +"Don't mention it, Anna. Sell your piano! It shall never be done." + +"But, George"-- + +"It's no use to talk of that, Anna; I will not listen to it." + +And so the wife was silenced. + +Little comfort had the young couple that evening in their finely +furnished house. Brainard was silent and thoughtful, while Anna felt +the pressure of a heavy weight upon her feelings. + +How different was it in the smaller and more plainly attired +dwelling of Tyler! There was comfort, and there were peace and +contentment, her smiling handmaids. + +On the next morning, Brainard found it impossible to conceal from +his wife the great anxiety he felt. She said very little to him, for +his trouble was of a kind for which she could suggest no remedy. +After he parted with her at the door, she returned and sat down in +one of the parlours to think. The piano was before her, and back to +that her thoughts at length came. It was not only a beautiful +instrument, but one of great excellence. Often had it been admired +by her friends, and particularly by a lady who had several times +expressed a wish to own one exactly like it in every respect. + +"I wish you would let me have that piano," the lady had said to her +not a week before; and said it as much in earnest as in jest. + +"I wonder if she really would buy it?" mused Mrs. Brainard. "I don't +want so fine an instrument. My old piano is a very good one, and is +useless at father's. Oh! if I could only get George the four hundred +dollars he wants so badly!" + +And she struck her hands together as her thoughts grew earnest on +the subject. For more than an hour the mind of Mrs. Brainard gave +itself up to this one idea. Then she dressed herself and went out. +Without consulting any one, she called upon the lady to whom +reference has been made. + +"Mrs. Aiken," said she, coming at once to the point, "you have often +remarked that you would like to own that piano of mine. Were you +really in earnest?" + +"In earnest? Certainly I was." Mrs. Aiken smiled, at the same time +that a slight expression of surprise came into her face. "It's one +of the finest instruments I ever touched." + +"It's for sale," said Mrs. Brainard, in a firm, business-like way. +"So there is a chance for you to call it your own." + +"For sale! Why do you say that, Anna?" + +"It's too costly an instrument for me to own. My old piano is a very +good one--quite good enough for all my purposes." + +"But this is your husband's wedding-gift, if I remember rightly?" + +"I know it is; but the gift was too costly a one for a young man +whose salary is only a thousand dollars a year." + +"Then he wishes to sell it." + +"No, indeed, not he!" + +"And would you sell it without consulting him?" said Mrs. Aiken. + +"Such is my intention." + +"He might be very much displeased." + +"No matter; I would soon smooth his frowning brow. But, Mrs. Aiken, +we won't discuss that matter. The instrument is to be sold. Do you +want it?" + +"I do." + +"Very well. Are you prepared to buy it?" + +"Perhaps so. It cost four hundred dollars?" + +"Yes." + +"What is your price?" + +"The same." + +"Then you make no deduction?" said Mrs. Aiken, smiling. + +"I wouldn't like to do that. It's as good as new. If I can sell it, +I want to be able to put in my husband's hands just what he paid for +it." + +"Oh, then you want the money for your husband?" + +"Certainly, I do. What use have I for four hundred dollars?" + +"You've come just in time, Anna," said Mrs. Aiken. "I arranged with +my husband to meet him this morning, at his store, to go and look at +some pianos. But if yours is really for sale, we have no occasion to +take any further trouble." + +"It is for sale, Mrs. Aiken. Understand this." + +"Very well. When do you want the money?" + +"This morning." + +"I don't know about that. However, I will see Mr. Aiken +immediately." + +"Shall I wait here for you?" + +"You may do so, or I will call at your house." + +"Do that, if you please." + +"Very well. In an hour, at most, I will see you." + +The two ladies then parted. + +When Mr. Brainard left his house that morning, he felt wretched. +Where--how was he to get four hundred dollars? To go to the party +from whom he had bought the piano, and confess that he was not able +to pay for it, had in it something so humiliating, that he could not +bear the thought for a moment. But if the note was not paid,--what +then? Might not the instrument be demanded? And how could he give it +up now? Or, worse, might it not be seized under execution? + +"Oh, that I had never bought it!" he at length exclaimed, mentally, +in the bitterness of his feelings. And then he half chid himself for +the extorted declaration. + +Nearly the whole of the morning was spent in the vain attempt to +borrow the needed sum. But there was no one to lend him four hundred +dollars. At length, in his desperation, he forced himself to apply +for a quarter's advance of salary. + +"No doubt," said he, within himself, "that the holder of the note +will take two hundred and fifty dollars on account, and give me time +on the balance." + +About the ways and means of living for the next three months, after +absorbing his salary in advance, he did not pause to think. He was +just in that state of mind in which he could say, with feeling, +"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Unhappily, his effort +to raise money by this expedient failed. His application was +received coldly, and in a way to mortify him exceedingly. + +Half desperate, and half despairing, Brainard started for his home +about one o'clock, his usual hour for dining. What was he to do? He +turned his thoughts to the right and to the left, groping about like +a man in the dark. But no light broke in upon his mental vision. + +"It will not do to meet Anna in this way," said he, as he approached +his own door. "I left her with a troubled countenance in the +morning. Now I must force an assumed cheerfulness." + +He entered, and was moving along the passage, when Anna came out +through one of the parlour doors to meet him, and drawing her arm +through his, said, in a lively tone,-- + +"Come, George, I want to play for you a favourite piece. I've been +practising it for the last hour." + +And she drew him into the parlour, and, taking her seat at the +piano, commenced running her fingers over the keys. Brainard stood +and listened to the music until the piece was finished, trying, but +in vain, to feel an interest in the performance. + +"How do you like that?" said the wife, with animation, lifting her +sparkling eyes to the face of her husband, which was serious, in +spite of all he could do to give it a better expression. + +"Beautifully performed," replied Brainard. + +"And do you really think so?" said Anna, as she arose and leaning on +his arm again, drew him into the next room. + +"Certainly, I do." + +"Didn't you think the instrument a little out of tune?" asked Anna. + +"No; it struck me as being in better tune than when you played last +evening." + +"It's a fine instrument, certainly. I prize it very much." + +Brainard sighed faintly. + +"Oh! How about your four hundred dollars?" said Anna, as if the +thought had just occurred to her. "Did you get the money?" + +A change was apparent in the manner of Brainard. + +"No, Anna," he replied, with assumed calmness. + +"Do you want it badly?" + +"Yes, dear. I have four hundred dollars due in the bank to-day, and +every effort to obtain the sum has failed." + +"What if I lend it to you?" said the young wife, looking archly into +his troubled face. + +"You!" he exclaimed, quickly. + +"Yes, me. Would you take it as a very great favour?" + +"The greatest you could do me just at this time!" + +"Very well; here is the money." + +And Anna drew a purse of gold from her pocket, and held it before +his eyes. + +"Anna! What does this mean?" + +And Brainard reached his hand to grasp the welcome treasure. But she +drew it away quickly, saying, as she did so,-- + +"Certain conditions must go with the loan." + +"Name them," was promptly answered by the husband, into whose face +the sunshine had already come back. + +"One is, that you are not to be angry with me for any thing that I +have done to-day." + +"What have you done?" + +And Brainard glanced around the room with an awakened suspicion. + +"I want your promise first." + +"You have it." + +"But mind you, I am in earnest," said Anna. + +"So am I. Now make your confession." + +"I sold the piano." + +"What?" + +There was an instant change in the expression of Brainard's face. + +"Your promise. Remember," said Anna, in a warning voice. + +"Sold the piano!" + +And he walked into the next room, Anna moving by his side. + +"Yes, I sold it to Mrs. Aiken for four hundred dollars. I had my old +instrument brought over from father's. This is as good a piano as I +want, or you either, I should think, seeing that you perceived no +difference in its tones from the one I parted with. Now, take this +purse, and if you don't call me the right sort of a wife you are a +very strange man--that is all I have to say." + +Surprise kept Brainard silent for some moments. He looked at the +piano, then at his wife, and then at the purse of gold, half +doubting whether all were real, or only a pleasant dream. + +"You are the right sort of a wife, Anna, and no mistake," said he, +at length, drawing his arm around her neck and kissing her. "You +have done what I had not the courage to do, and, in the act, saved +me from a world of trouble. The truth is, I never should have bought +that piano. A clerk, with a salary of only a thousand dollars, is +not justified in expending four hundred dollars for a piano." + +"Nor in having so much costly furniture," said Anna, glancing round +the room. + +Brainard sighed, for the thought of two hundred dollars yet to pay +flitted through his mind. + +"Nor in paying three hundred dollars for rent," added Anna. + +"Why do you say that?" asked Brainard. + +"Because it's the truth. The fact is, George, I'm afraid we're in +the wrong road for comfort." + +"Perhaps we are," was the young man's constrained admission. + +"Then the quicker we get into the right way the better. Don't you +think so?" + +"If we, are wrong, we should try to get right," said Brainard. + +"It was wrong to buy that piano. This is your own admission." + +"Well?" + +"We are right again in that respect." + +"Yes, thanks to my dear wife's good resolution and prompt action." + +"It was wrong to take so costly a house," said Anna. + +"I couldn't find a cheaper one that was genteel and comfortable." + +"I'm sure I wouldn't ask any thing more genteel and comfortable than +Mrs. Tyler's house." + +"That pigeon-box!" + +Brainard spoke in, a tone of contempt. + +"Why, George, how you talk! It's a perfect gem of a house, well +built and well finished in every part, and big enough for a family +twice as large as ours. I think it far more comfortable than this +great barn of a place, and would a thousand times rather live in it. +And then it is cheaper by a hundred and twenty dollars a year." + +A hundred and twenty dollars! What a large sum of money. Ah, if he +had a hundred and twenty dollars in addition to the four hundred +received from Anna, how happy he would be! These were the thoughts +that were flitting through the mind of Brainard at the mention of +the amount that could be saved by taking a smaller house. + +"Well, Anna, perhaps you are right. Oh, dear!" + +"Why do you sigh so heavily, George?" asked Mrs. Brainard, looking +at her husband with some surprise. + +"Because I can't help it," was frankly answered. + +"You've got the money you needed?" + +"Not all." + +"Why, George! Didn't you say that you had only four hundred dollars +to pay?" + +"I didn't say only." + +"How much more?" + +"The fact is, Anna, I have two hundred dollars yet to meet." + +"To-day?" + +Anna's face became troubled. + +"No, not until the day after to-morrow." + +The young wife's countenance lighted up again. + +"Is that all?" + +"Yes, thank Heaven, that is all. But how the payment is to be made, +is more than I can tell." + +Dinner was now announced. + +"I shall have to turn financier again," said Anna, smiling, as she +drew her arm within that of her husband, and led him away to the +dining-room. + +"I'm a little afraid of your financiering," returned her husband, +shaking his head. "You might sell me next as a useless piece of +furniture." + +"Now, George, that is too bad," replied Anna, looking hurt. + +"I only jested, dear," said Brainard, repairing the little wrong +done to her feelings with a kiss. "Your past efforts at financiering +were admirable, and I only hope your next attempt may be as +successful." + +Two days more passed, during which time neither Brainard nor his +wife said any thing to each other about money, although the thoughts +of both were busy for most of the time on that interesting subject. +Silently sat Brainard at the breakfast-table on the morning of the +day when his last note fell due. How was he to meet the payment? Two +hundred dollars! He had not so much as fifty dollars in his +possession, and as to borrowing, that was a vain hope. Must he go to +the holder of the note, and ask a renewal? He shrunk from the +thought, murmuring to himself--"Any thing but that." + +As for getting the required sum through Anna, he did not permit +himself to hope very strongly. She had looked thoughtful since their +last interview on the subject, and at times, it seemed to him, +troubled. It was plain that she had been disappointed in any efforts +to get money that she might have made. + +"That she, too, should be subject to mortification and painful +humiliation!" said he, as his mind dwelt on the subject. "It is too +bad--too bad!--Oh, to think that my folly should have had this +reaction!" + +Anna looked sober as Brainard parted with her after breakfast, and +he thought he saw tears in her eyes. As soon as he was gone she +dressed herself, and taking from a handsome jewel-box the present of +her husband, a gold watch and chain, a bracelet, diamond pin, and +some other articles of the same kind, left the house. + +Two hours afterward, as Brainard sat at his desk trying to fix his +mind upon the accounts before him, a note was handed in bearing his +address. He broke the seal, and found that it enclosed one hundred +and seventy dollars, with these few words from Anna: + +"This is the best I can do for you, dear husband. Will it be +enough?" + +"God bless her!" came half audibly from the lips of Brainard, as he +drew forth his pocket-book, in which were thirty dollars. "Yes, it +will be enough." + +"There is no comfort in owing, or in paying after this fashion," +said the young man to himself, as he walked homeward at dinner-time, +with his last note in his pocket. "There will have to be a change." + +And there was a change. When next I visited my young friend, I found +him in a smaller house, looking as comfortable and happy as I could +have wished to see him. We talked pleasantly about the errors of the +past, and the trouble which had followed as a natural result. + +"There is one thing," said Brainard, during the conversation, +glancing at his wife as he spoke, "that I have not been able to make +out." + +"What is that?" asked Mrs. Brainard, smiling. + +"Where the last one hundred and seventy dollars you gave me came +from." + +"Have you missed nothing?" said she, archly. + +"Nothing," was his reply. + +"Been deprived of no comfort?" + +"So far from it, I have found a great many new ones." + +"And been saved the trouble of winding up and regulating that pretty +eight-day clock for which you gave forty dollars." + +Brainard fairly started to his feet as he turned to the mantel, and, +strange to say, missed, for the first time, the handsome timepiece +referred to by his wife. + +"Why, Anna, is it possible? Surely that hasn't been gone for two +months!" + +"Oh, yes, it has." + +"Well, that beats all." + +And Brainard resumed his chair. + +"You've been just as comfortable," said the excellent young woman. + +"But you didn't get a hundred and seventy dollars for the +timepiece?" + +"No. Have you lost no other comfort? Think." + +Brainard thought, but in vain. Anna glided from the room, and +returned in a few moments with her jewel-box. + +"Do you miss any thing?" said she, as she raised the lid and placed +the box in his hands. + +"Your watch and chain!" + +Anna smiled. + +"You did not sell them?" + +"Yes." + +"Why, Anna! Did you set no value on your husband's gifts?" + +There was a slight rebuke in the tone of Brainard. Tears sprang to +Anna's eyes, as she answered--"I valued them less than his +happiness." + +Brainard looked at her for a few moments with an expression of deep +tenderness. Then turning to me, he said, in a voice that was +unsteady from emotion--"You shall be my judge. Has she done wrong or +right?" + +"Right!" I responded, warmly. "Right! thank Heaven, my friend, for +giving you a true woman for a wife. There is some hope now of your +finding the comfort you sought so vainly in the beginning." + +And he has found it--found it in a wise appropriation, of the good +gifts of Providence according to his means. + + + + +CHILDREN--A FAMILY SCENE. + + +"MOTHER!" + +"As I was saying"-- + +"Mother!" + +"Miss Jones wore a white figured satin"-- + +"Oh! mother!" + +"With short sleeves"-- + +"Mother! mother!" + +"Looped up with a small rosebud"-- + +"I say! mother! mother!" + +The child now caught hold of her mother's arm, and shook it +violently, in her effort to gain the attention she desired, while +her voice, which at first was low, had become loud and impatient. +Mrs. Elder, no longer able to continue her account of the manner in +which Miss Jones appeared at a recent ball, turned angrily toward +little Mary, whose importunities had sadly annoyed her, and, seizing +her by the arm, took her to the door and thrust her roughly from the +room, without any inquiry as to what she wanted. The child screamed +for a while at the door, and then went crying up-stairs. + +"Do what you will," said Mrs. Elder, fretfully, "you cannot teach +children manners. I've talked to Mary a hundred times about +interrupting me when I'm engaged in conversation with any one." + +"It's line upon line and precept upon precept," remarked the +visitor. "Children are children, and we mustn't expect too much from +them." + +"But I see other people's children sit down quietly and behave +themselves when there is company." + +"All children are not alike," said the visitor. "Some are more +restless and impetuous than others. We have to consult their +dispositions and pay regard thereto, or it will be impossible to +manage them rightly. I find a great difference among my own +children. Some are orderly, and others disorderly. Some have a +strong sense of propriety, and others no sense of propriety at all." + +"It's a great responsibility; is it not, Mrs. Peters?" + +"Very great." + +"It makes me really unhappy. I am sometimes tempted to wish them all +in heaven; and then I would be sure they were well off and well +taken care of. Some people appear to get along with their children +so easy. I don't know how it is. I can't." + +Mrs. Peters could have given her friend a useful hint or two on the +subject of managing children, if she had felt that she dared to do +so. But she knew Mrs. Elder to be exceedingly sensitive, and +therefore she thought it best not to say any thing that might offend +her. + +There was a quiet-looking old gentleman in the room where the two +ladies sat conversing. He had a book in his hand, and seemed to be +reading; though, in fact, he was observing all that was said and +done. He had not designed to do this, but the interruption of little +Mary threw his mind off his book, and his thoughts entered a new +element. This person was a brother of Mrs. Elder, and had recently +become domesticated in her family. He was a bachelor. + +After the visitor had retired, Mrs. Elder sat down to her +work-table in the same room where she had received her company, and +resumed her sewing operations, which the call had suspended. She had +not been thus engaged long, before Mary came back into the room, +looking sad enough. Instead of going to her mother; she went up to +the old gentleman, and looking into his face with her yet tearful +eyes, said-- + +"Uncle William?" + +"What, dear?" was returned in a kind voice. + +"Something sticks my neck. Won't you see what it is?" + +Uncle William laid down his book, and, turning down the neck of +Mary's frock, found that the point of a pin was fretting her body. +There was at least a dozen little scratches, and an inflamed spot +the size of a dollar. + +"Poor child!" he said, tenderly, as he removed the pin. "There now! +It feels better, doesn't it?" + +"Yes, it feels better; thank you, dear uncle!" and Mary put up her +sweet lips and kissed him. The old gentleman was doubly repaid for +his trouble. Mary ran lightly away, and he resumed his book. + +In about ten minutes, the child opened the door and came in pulling +the dredging-box, to which she had tied a string, along the floor, +and marking the progress she made by a track of white meal. + +"You little torment!" exclaimed the mother, springing up, and +jerking the string and box angrily from Mary's hand. "It is too bad! +you know well enough that you had no business to touch this. Just +see what a condition the floor is in! Oh dear! Shall I never teach +the child any thing?" + +Mrs. Elder took the dredging-box out into the kitchen, and gave the +cook a sound scolding for permitting the child to have it. When she +got back, Mary had her work-basket on the floor, rummaging through +it for buttons and spools of cotton. + +"Now just see that!" she exclaimed again. "There now!" And little +Mary's ears buzzed for half an hour afterwards from the sound box +she received. + +After the child was thrust from the room, Mrs. Elder said, +fretfully, "I'm out of all heart! I never saw such children. They +seem ever bent on doing something wrong. Hark! what's that?" + +There was the crash of something falling over head, followed by a +loud scream. + +Uncle William and Mrs. Elder both started from the room and ran +up-stairs. Here they found Henry, a boy two years older than Mary, +who was between three and four, lying on the carpet with a bureau +drawer upon him, which he had, while turning topsy-turvy after +something or other, accidentally pulled out upon him. He was more +frightened than hurt, by a great deal. + +"Now just look at that!" ejaculated the outraged mother when the +cause of alarm became apparent. "Just look at that, will you? Isn't +it beyond all endurance! Haven't I told you a hundred times not to +go near my drawers, ha? No matter if you'd been half killed! There, +march out of the room as quick as you can go." And she seized Henry +by the arm with a strong grip, and fairly threw him, in her anger, +from the chamber. + +While she was yet storming, fretting, and fuming over the drawer, +Uncle William retired from the apartment and, went down-stairs +again. On entering the room he had left but a few minutes before, he +found Mary at her mother's work-basket again, notwithstanding the +box she had received only a short time before for the same fault. + +"Mary," said Uncle William to the child, in a calm, earnest, yet +kind voice. + +The child took its hands from the basket and came up to her uncle. + +"Mary, didn't your mother tell you not to go to her basket?" + +"Yes, sir," replied Mary, looking steadily into her uncle's face. + +"Then why did you go?" + +"I don't know." + +"It was very wrong." Uncle William spoke seriously, and the child's +face assumed a serious expression. + +"Will you do it any more?" + +"No, sir." Mary shrink close to her uncle, and her reply was in a +whisper. + +"Be sure and not forget, Mary. Mother sews with her spools of +cotton, and uses her scissors to make little Mary frocks and aprons, +and if Mary takes any thing out of her work-basket, she can't do her +sewing good. Will you remember?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Now don't forget." + +"No, sir." + +"And just see, Mary, how you have soiled the carpet with the +dredging-box! Didn't you know the flour would come out and be +scattered all over the floor?" + +"No, sir." + +"But now you know it." + +"Yes, sir." + +"You won't get the dredging-box any more?" + +"No, sir." + +While this conversation was going on, Mrs. Elder came down, still +feeling much excited. After Uncle William had said what he +considered enough to Mary, he took up his book and commenced +reading. The child stood leaning against him for five or ten +minutes, and then ran out of the room. + +"How long do you suppose she will remember what you have said?" +remarked Mrs. Elder, with a lightness of tone that showed her +contempt for all such measures of reform. + +"Much longer than she will remember your box on the ear," was the +blunt reply. + +"I doubt it. Words make no impression on children." + +"Harsh words make very little impression, I admit. For these close +up, instead of entering the avenues to the mind. Kind words, and +reasons for things, go a great way even with children. How long did +Mary remember and profit by your sound rating and box on the ear +(still red with the blow) into the bargain? Not over ten minutes; +for when I came down-stairs, she had both hands into your basket +again." + +"The little huzzy! It's well for her that I did not catch her at +it!" + +"It is well indeed, Sarah, for you would, by your angry and unjust +punishment, have done the little creature a serious injury. Did you +ever explain to her the use of your work-basket and the various +things in it, and make her comprehend how necessary it was to you to +have every thing in order there, just as you placed it?" + +"Gracious, William! Do you think I haven't something else to do +besides wasting time in explaining to children the use of every +thing in my work-basket? What good would it do, I wonder?" + +"It would do a great deal of good, Sarah, you may rely upon it, and +be a great saving of time into the bargain; for if you made your +children properly comprehend the use of every thing around them, and +how their meddling with certain things was wrong, because it would +incommode you, you would find them far less disposed than now to put +their hands into wrong places. Try it." + +"Nonsense! I wonder if I haven't been trying all my life to make +them understand that they were not to meddle with things that didn't +belong to them! And what good has it done?" + +"Very little, I must own; for I never saw children who had less +regard to what their mother says than yours have." + +This touched Mrs. Elder a little. She didn't mind animadverting upon +the defects of her children, but was ready to stand up in their +defence whenever any one else found fault with them. + +"I reckon they are not the worst children in the world," she +replied, rather warmly. + +"I should be sorry if they were. But they are not the best either, +by a long way, although naturally as good children as are seen +anywhere. It is your bad management that is spoiling them." + +"My management!" + +"Frankly, Sarah, I am compelled to affirm that it is. I have been in +your house, now, for three or four months, and must say that I am +surprised that your children are as good as they are. Don't be +angry! Don't be fretted with me as you are with every thing in them +that doesn't please you. I am old enough to hear reason as well as +to talk reason. Let us go back to a point on which I wished to fix +your attention, but from which we digressed. In trying to correct +Mary's habit of rummaging in your work-basket, you boxed her ears, +and stormed at her in a most unmotherly way. Did it do any good? No; +for in ten minutes she was at the same work again. For this I talked +to her kindly, and endeavoured to make her sensible that it was +wrong to disturb your basket." + +"And much good it will do!" Mrs. Elder did not feel very amiable. + +"We shall see," said Uncle William, in his calm way. "Now I propose +that we both go out of this room, and let Mary come into it, and be +here alone for half an hour. My word for it, she doesn't touch your +work-basket." + +"And my word for it, she goes to it the first thing." + +"Notwithstanding you boxed her ears for the same fault so recently?" + +"Yes, and notwithstanding you reasoned with her, and talked to her +so softly but a few moments since." + +"Very well. The experiment is worth making, not to see who is right, +but to see if a gentler mode of government than the one you have +adopted will not be much better for your children. I am sure that it +will." + +As proposed, the mother and Uncle William left the room, and Mary +was allowed to go into it and remain there alone for half an hour. +Long before this time had expired, Mrs. Elder's excited feelings had +cooled off, and been succeeded by a more sober and reflective state +of mind. At the end of the proposed period, Uncle William came down, +and joining his sister, said-- + +"Now, Sarah, let us go and see what Mary has been doing; but before +we enter the room, let me beg of you not to show angry displeasure, +nor to speak a harsh or loud word to Mary, no matter what she may +have been about; for it will do no good, but harm. You have tried it +long enough, and its ill effects call upon you to make a new +experiment." + +Mrs. Elder, who was in a better state than she was half an hour +before, readily agreed to this. They then went together into the +room. As they entered, Mary looked up at them from the floor where +she was, sitting, her face bright with smiles at seeing them. + +"You lit"-- + +Uncle William grasped quickly the hand of his sister to remind her +that she was not to speak harshly to Mary, no matter what she was +doing, and was thus able to check the storm of angry reproof that +was about to break upon the head of the child, who had been up to +the book-case and taken, therefrom two rows of books, with which she +was playing on the floor. + +"What are you doing, dear?" asked Uncle William, kindly. + +"Building a house," replied the child, the smiles that the sudden +change in the mother's countenance had driven from her face, coming +back and lighting up her beautiful young brow. "See here what a +pretty house I have, uncle! And here is the fence, and these are +trees." + +"So it is, a very pretty house," replied the uncle, while the mother +could scarcely repress her indignation at the outrage Mary had +committed upon the book-case. + +The uncle glanced toward the table, upon which the work-basket +remained undisturbed. He then sat down, and said--"Come here, love." + +Mary got up and ran quickly to him. + +"You didn't touch mother's work-basket?" he said. + +"No, sir," replied Mary. + +"Why?" + +Mary thought a moment, and then said--"You told me not to do it any +more." + +"Why not?" + +"Because if I take the cotton and scissors, mother can't make aprons +and frocks for Mary." + +"And if you go into her work-basket, you disturb every thing and +make her a great deal of trouble. You won't do it any more?" + +"No, sir." And the child shook her head earnestly. + +"Didn't you know that it was also wrong to take the books out of the +book-case? It not only hurts the books, but throws the room and the +book-case into disorder." + +"I wanted to build a house," said Mary. + +"But books are to read, not to build houses with." + +"Won't you ask papa to buy me a box of blocks, like Hetty Green's, +to build houses with?" + +"I'll buy them for you myself the next time I go out," replied Uncle +William. + +"Oh, will you?" And Mary clapped her hands joyfully together. + +"But you must never disturb the books in the book-case any more." + +"No, sir," replied the child, earnestly. + +Mrs. Elder felt rebuked. To hide what was too plainly exhibited in +her countenance, she stooped to the floor and commenced taking up +the books and replacing them in the book-case. + +"Now go up into my room, Mary, and wait there until I come. I want +to tell you something." + +The child went singing up-stairs as happy as she could be. + +"You see, Sarah, that kind words are more effective than harsh names +with children. Mary didn't touch your work-basket." + +"But she went to the book-case, which was just as bad. Children must +be in some mischief." + +"Not so bad, Sarah; for she had been made to comprehend why it was +wrong to go to your basket, but not so of the book-case." + +"I'm sure I've scolded her about taking down the books fifty times, +and still, every chance she can get, she's at them again." + +"You may have scolded her; but scolding a child and making it +comprehend its error are two things. Scolding darkens the mind by +arousing evil passions, instead of enlightening it with clear +perceptions of right and, wrong. _No child is ever improved by +scolding, but always injured_." + +"There are few children who are not injured, then. I should like to +see a mother get along with a parcel of children without scolding +them." + +"It is a sad truth, as you say, that there are but few children who +are not injured by scolding. No cause is so active for evil among +children as their mother's impatience, which shows itself from the +first, and acts upon them through the whole period in which their +minds are taking impressions and hardening into permanent forms. +Like you, Sarah, our own mother had but little patience among her +children, and you can look back and remember, as well as I, many +instances in which this impatience led her into hasty and ill-judged +acts and expressions that did us harm rather than good." + +"It's an easy thing to talk, William. An easy thing to say--Have +patience." + +"I know it is, Sarah; and a very hard thing to compel ourselves to +have patience. But, if a mother's love for her children be not +strong enough to induce her to govern herself for their sakes, who +shall seek their good? Who will make any sacrifice for them?" + +"Are you not afraid to trust Mary up in your room?" said Mrs. Elder, +recollecting at the moment that Mary was alone there for a longer +time than she felt to be prudent. + +"No. She will not trouble any thing." + +"I'd be afraid to trust her. She's a thoughtless, impulsive child, +and might do some damage." + +"No danger. She understands perfectly what may be and what may not +be touched in my room, and so do all the children in the house. I +wouldn't be afraid to leave them all there for an hour." + +"You'd be afraid afterwards, I guess, if you were to try the +experiment." + +"I am willing to try it." + +"You are welcome." + +"Henry! William!" Uncle William went to the door and called the +children. + +Two boys came romping into the room. + +"Boys," he said, "Mary is up in my room, and I want you to go up and +stay with her until I come." + +Away scampered the little fellows as merry as crickets. + +"They'll make sad work in your room, brother; and if they do, you +mustn't blame me for it." + +"Oh, no, I shall not blame you, nor scold them, but endeavour to +apply some corrective that will make them think, and determine never +to do so again. However, I am pretty well satisfied that nothing +will be disturbed." + +In less than an hour, Mrs. Elder and her brother went up to see what +the children were about. They found them seated on the floor, with +two or three loose packs of plain cards about them, out of which +they were forming various figures, by laying them together upon the +floor. + +"Why, children! How could you take your uncle's cards?" said Mrs. +Elder reprovingly. + +"He lets us play with them, mother," replied the oldest boy, turning +to his uncle with an appealing look. + +"You haven't touched any thing else?" said Uncle William. + +"No, sir, nothing else. We found Mary playing with the cards when we +came up, and we've been playing with them ever since. You don't +care, do you, Uncle William?" + +"No; for I've told you, you remember, that you might play with the +cards whenever you wanted to." + +"Can't we play with them longer, Uncle William?" asked Mary. + +"Yes, my dear, you can play with them as long as you choose." + +Mrs. Elder and her brother turned away and went down-stairs. + +"I don't know how it is, William, that they behave themselves so +well in your room, and act like so many young Vandals in every other +part of the house." + +"It is plain enough, Sarah," replied her brother. "I never scold +them, and never push them aside when they come to me, no matter what +I'm engaged in doing. I never think a little time taken from other +employments thrown away when devoted to children; and, therefore, I +generally hear what they have to say, let them come to me when they +will. Sometimes I am engaged in such a way that I must not be +interrupted, and then I lock my door. I have explained this to them, +and now the children, when they find my door locked, immediately go +away. On admitting them into my room at first, I was very careful to +tell them that such and such things must on no account be touched, +and explain the reason why; at the same time I gave them free +permission to play with other things that could sustain no serious +injury. Only once or twice has any of them ventured to trespass on +forbidden ground. But, instead of scolding, or even administering a +reprimand, I forbade the one who had done wrong coming to my room +for a certain time. In no case have I had to repeat the +interdiction. If I can thus govern them in my room, I am sure you +can do it in the whole house, if you go the right way about it." + +"You say that you always attend to them when they come to you?" said +Mrs. Elder. + +"Yes. I try to do so, no matter how much I am engaged." + +"If I were to do that, I would be attending to them all the time. I +couldn't sit a moment with a visitor, nor say three words to +anybody. You saw how it was this morning. The moment I sat down to +talk with Mrs. Peters, Mary came and commenced interrupting me at +every word, until I was forced to put her from the room." + +"Yes, I saw it," replied the brother in a voice that plainly enough +betrayed his disapproval of his sister's conduct in that particular +instance. + +"And you think I ought to have neglected my visitor to attend to an +ill-mannered child?" + +"I think, when Mary came to you, as she did, that you should have +attended to her at once. If you had done so, you would have relieved +her from pain, and saved yourself and visitor from a serious +annoyance." + +"How do you mean?" + +"Don't you know what Mary wanted?" + +"No." + +"Is it possible! I thought you learned it when she came to me after +Mrs. Peters had left. + +"No, I didn't know. What was the matter with her?" + +The brother stepped to the door and called for Mary, who presently +came running down-stairs. + +"What do you want, uncle?" said she, as she came up to him and +lifted her sparkling blue eyes to his face. + +"What were you going to ask your mother to do for you when Mrs. +Peters was here this morning?" + +"A pin stuck me," replied the child, artlessly. "Don't you know that +you took it out?" + +"Yes, so I did. Let me look at the place," and he turned down Mary's +frock so that her mother could see the scratched and inflamed spot +upon her neck. + +"Poor child!" said Mrs. Elder, the tears springing to her eyes as +she stooped down and kissed the wounded place. + +"Are you playing with the cards yet, dear?" asked Uncle William. + +"Yes, sir." + +"Do you want to play more?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Run along then." And Mary tripped lightly away. + +"When the child first spoke to you, Sarah, if you had paused to see +what she wanted, all would have been right in a few minutes. Even if +her request had been frivolous, by attending to it you would have +satisfied her, and been in a much better frame of mind to entertain +your friend." + +Mrs. Elder was silent. There was conviction in Mary's inflamed neck +not to be resisted; and the conviction went to her heart. + +"We," said the old gentleman, "who have attained to the age of +reason, expect children, who do not reflect, to act with all the +propriety of men and women, and that too, without mild and correct +instruction as to their duties. Are we not most to blame? They must +regard our times, seasons, and conveniences, and we will attend to +their ever active wants, when our leisure will best permit us to do +so. Is it any wonder, under such a system, that children are +troublesome? Would it not be a greater wonder were they otherwise? +We must first learn self-government and self-denial before we can +rightly govern children. After that, the task will be an easy one." + +Mrs. Elder stayed to hear no more, but, rising abruptly, went up +into her chamber to think. When she appeared in her family, her +countenance was subdued, and when she spoke, her voice was lower and +more earnest. It was remarkable to see how readily her children +minded when she spoke to them, and how affectionately they drew +around her. Uncle William was delighted. In a few days, however, old +habits returned, and then her brother came to her aid, and by timely +uttered counsel gave her new strength. It was wonderful to see what +an improvement three months had made, and at the end of a year no +more loving and orderly household could be found. It took much of +Mrs. Elder's time, and occupied almost constantly her thoughts; but +the result well paid for all. + +Thinking that this every-day incident in the history of a friend +would appeal strongly to some mother who has not yet learned to +govern herself, or properly regard the welfare of her children, we +have sketched it hastily, and send it forth in the hope that it may +do good. + + + + +LOSING ONE'S TEMPER. + + +I WAS sitting in my room one morning, feeling all "out of sorts" +about something or other, when an orphan child, whom I had taken to +raise, came in with a broken tumbler in her hand, and said, while +her young face was pale, and her little lip quivered,-- + +"See, Mrs. Graham! I went to take this tumbler from the dresser to +get Anna a drink of water, and I let it fall." + +I was in a fretful humour before the child came in, and her +appearance, with the broken tumbler in her hand, did not tend to +help me to a better state of mind. She was suffering a good deal of +pain in consequence of the accident, and needed a kind word to quiet +the disturbed beatings of her heart. But she had come to me in an +unfortunate moment. + +"You are a careless little girl!" said I, severely, taking the +fragments of glass from her trembling hands. "A very careless little +girl, and I am displeased with you!" + +I said no more; but my countenance expressed even stronger rebuke +than my words. The child lingered near me for, a few moments, and +then shrunk away from the room. I was sorry, in a moment, that I had +permitted myself to speak unkindly to the little girl; for there was +no need of my doing so; and, moreover, she had taken my words, as I +could see, deeply to heart. I had made her unhappy without a cause. +The breaking of the tumbler was an accident likely to happen to any +one and the child evidently felt bad enough about what had occurred, +without having my displeasure added thereto. + +If I was unhappy before Jane entered my room I was still more +unhappy after she retired. I blamed myself, and pitied the child; +but this did not in the least mend the matter. + +In about half an hour, Jane came up very quietly with Willy, my dear +little, curly-haired, angel-face boy, in her arms. He had fallen +asleep, and she had, with her utmost strength, carried him +up-stairs. She did not lift her eyes to mine as she entered, but +went, with her burden, to the low bed that was in the room, where +she laid him tenderly, and then sat down with her face turned partly +away from me, and with a fan kept off the flies and cooled his moist +skin. + +Enough of Jane's countenance was visible to enable me to perceive +that its expression was sad. And it was an unkind word from my lips +that had brought this cloud over her young face! + +"So much for permitting myself to fall into a fretful mood," said I, +mentally. "In future I must be more watchful over my state of mind. +I have no right to make others suffer from my own unhappy temper." + +Jane continued to sit by Willy and fan him; and every now and then I +could hear a very low sigh come up, as if involuntarily, from her +bosom. Faint as the sound was, it smote upon my ear, and added to my +uncomfortable frame of mind. + +A friend called, and I went down into the parlour, and sat +conversing there for an hour. But all the while there was a weight +upon my feelings. I tried, but in vain, to be cheerful. I was too +distinctly aware of the fact, that an individual--and that a +motherless little girl--was unhappy through my unkindness; and the +consciousness was like a heavy hand upon my bosom. + +"This is all a weakness," I said to myself, after my friend had +left, making an effort to throw off the uncomfortable feeling. But +it was of no avail. Even if the new train of thought, awakened by +conversation with my friend, had lifted me above the state of mind +in which I was when she came, the sight of Jane's sober face, as she +passed me on the stairs, would have depressed my feelings again. + +In order both to relieve my own and the child's feelings, I thought +I would refer to the broken tumbler, and tell her not to grieve +herself about it, as its loss was of no consequence whatever. But +this would have been to have made an acknowledgment to her that I +had been in the wrong, and instinctive feeling of pride remonstrated +against that. + +"Ah me!" I sighed. "Why did I permit myself to speak so unguardedly? +How small are the cause that sometimes destroy our peace! How much +good or evil is there in a single word!" + +Some who read this may think that I was very weak to let a hastily +uttered censure against a careless child trouble me. What are a +child's feelings? + +I have been a child; and, as a child, have been blamed severely by +those whom I desired to please, and felt that unkind words fell +heavier and more painfully, sometimes, than blows. I could, +therfore, understand the nature of Jane's feelings, and sympathize +with her to a certain extent. + +All through the day, Jane moved about more quietly than usual. When +I spoke to her about any thing--which I did in a kinder voice than I +ordinarily used--she would look into my face with an earnestness +that rebuked me. + +Toward evening, I sent her down-stairs for a pitcher of cool water. +She went quickly, and soon returned with the pitcher of water, and a +tumbler, on a waiter. She was coming towards me, evidently using +more than ordinary caution, when her foot tripped against something, +and she stumbled forward. It was in vain that she tried to save the +pitcher. Its balance was lost, and it fell over and was broken to +pieces at my feet, the water dashing upon the skirt of my dress. + +The poor child became instantly as pale as ashes, and the frightened +look she gave me I shall not soon forget. She tried to speak, and +say that it was an accident, but her tongue was, paralyzed for the +moment, and she found no utterance. + +The lesson I had received in the morning served me for purposes of +self-control now, and I said, instantly, in a mild, voice-- + +"Never mind, Jane; I know you couldn't help it. I must tack down +that loose edge of the carpet. I came near tripping there myself +to-day. Go and get a floor-cloth and wipe up the water as quickly as +you can, while I gather up the broken pieces." + +The colour came back instantly to Jane's face. She gave me one +grateful look, and then ran quickly away, to do as I had directed +her. When she came back, she blamed herself for not having been more +careful, expressed sorrow for the accident, and promised over and +over again that she would be more guarded in future. + +The contrast between both of our feelings now and what they were in +the morning, was very great. I felt happier for having acted justly +and with due self-control; and my little girl, though troubled on +account of the accident, had not the extra burden of my displeasure +to bear. + +"Better, far better," said I to myself, as I sat and reflected upon +the incidents just related--"better, far better is it, in all our +relations in life, to maintain a calm exterior, and on no account +speak harshly to those who are below us. Angry words make double +wounds. They hurt those whom they are addressed, while they leave a +sting behind them. Above all, should we guard against a moody +temper. Whenever we permit any thing to fret our minds, we are not +in a state to exercise due self-control, and if temptation comes +then we are sure to fall." + + + + +TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS + + +"OH, dear Mrs. Graham!" said my neighbour Mrs. Jones to me one day, +"what shall I do for good help? I am almost worried out of my +senses. I wish somebody would invent a machine to cook, wash, scrub, +and do housework in general. What a blessing it would be! As for the +whole tribe of flesh and blood domestics, they are not worth their +salt." + +"They are all poorly educated," I replied, "and we cannot expect +much of them. Most of them have nearly every thing to learn when +they come into our houses, and are bad scholars into the bargain. +But we must have patience. I find it my only resource." + +"Patience!" ejaculated Mrs. Jones, warmly. "It would require more +patience than Job ever possessed to get along with some of them." + +"And yet," said I, "we accomplish little or nothing by impatience. +At least such is my experience." + +"I don't know, ma'am," replied Mrs. Jones. "If you go to being +gentle and easy with them, if you don't follow them up at every +point, you will soon have affairs in a pretty condition! They don't +care a fig for your comfort nor interest--not they! In fact, more +than half of them would, a thousand times, rather make things +disagreeable for you than otherwise." + +"I know they are a great trial, sometimes," I answered, not feeling +at liberty to say to my visitor all I thought. "But we must +endeavour to bear it the best we can. That is my rule; and I find, +in the long run, that I get on much better when I repress all +exhibition of annoyance at their carelessness, short-comings, +neglect, or positive misdeeds, than I do when I let them see that I +am annoyed, or exhibit the slightest angry feeling." + +Not long after this, we accepted an invitation to take tea with Mr. +and Mrs. Jones, and I then had an opportunity of seeing how she +conducted herself towards her domestics. I was in no way surprised, +afterwards, that she found difficulty in getting along with +servants. + +Soon after my husband and myself went in, and while we were sitting +in the parlour, Mrs. Jones had occasion to call a servant. I noticed +that, when she rung the bell, she did so with a quick jerk; and I +could perceive a tone of authority in the ting-a-ling of the bell, +the sound of which was distinctly heard. Nearly two minutes passed +before the servant made her appearance, in which time the bell +received a more vigorous jerk. At last she entered, looking flushed +and hurried. + +"What's the reason you did not come when I first rung?" inquired our +lady hostess, in a severe tone. + +"I--I--came as quick as I could," replied the girl, with a look of +mortification at being spoken to before strangers. + +"No, you didn't! It's your custom to wait until I ring twice. Now +let this be the last time!" + +And then, in a low voice, Mrs. Jones gave the direction for which +she had summoned her. + +"Such a set!" ejaculated the lady, as the girl left the room. Her +words were intended to reach other ears besides ours; and so they +did. "That girl," she continued, addressing me, "has a habit of +making me ring twice. It really seems to give them pleasure, I +believe, to annoy you. Ah, me! this trouble with servants is a never +ending one. It meets you at every turn." + +And, for some time, she animadverted upon her favourite theme--for +such it appeared to be,--until her husband, who was evidently +annoyed, managed to change the subject of discourse. Once or twice +she came back to it before tea-time. + +At last the tea bell rung, and we ascended to the dining-room. We +were but fairly seated, when a frown darkened suddenly on the brow +of our hostess, and her hand applied itself nervously to the +table-bell. + +The girl who had set the table came up from the kitchen. + +"There is no sugar in the bowl," said Mrs. Jones sharply. "I wish +you would learn to set the table while you are about it. I'm sure I +have spoken to you often enough." + +As the girl took the sugar-bowl to fill it, the frown left the face +of our hostess, and she turned to me with a bland smile, and asked +whether I used sugar and cream in my tea. I replied in the +affirmative; but did not smile in return, for I could not. I knew +the poor girl's feelings were hurt at being spoken to in such a way +before strangers, and this made me extremely uncomfortable. + +"Do you call this cream?" was the angry interrogation of Mrs. Jones, +as the girl returned with the sugar, pushing towards her the +cream-jug, which she had lifted from the table as she spoke. + +"Yes, ma'am," was replied. + +"Look at it, and see, then." + +"It's the cream," said the girl. + +"If that's cream, I never want to see milk. Here! take it away and +bring me the cream." + +The girl looked confused and distressed. But she took the cream-jug +and went down-stairs with it. + +"That's just the way they always do!" said Mrs. Jones; leaning back +in her chair. "I really get out of all patience, sometimes." + +In a little while the girl returned. + +"It's the cream, ma'am, as I said. Here's the milk." And she +presented two vessels. + +Mrs. Jones took both from her hands with an ill-natured jerk. Sure +enough, it was as the girl had said. + +"Such cream!" fell from the lips of our hostess, as she commenced +pouring it into the cups already filled with tea. + +The girl went down-stairs to take back the milk she had brought up, +but she was scarcely at the bottom of the stairs, when the bell was +rung for her. + +"Why don't you stay here? What are you running off about?" said Mrs. +Jones, as she came in hurriedly. "You know I want you to wait on the +table." + +And so it was during the whole meal. The girl was not once spoken to +except in a tone of anger or offensive authority. + +I was no longer surprised that Mrs. Jones found it difficult to keep +good domestics, for no one of feeling can long remain with a woman +who speaks to them always in a tone of command, or who reproves them +in the presence of visitors. + +My husband was very severe upon Mrs. Jones after we returned home. +"No lady," said he, "ever spoke in anger or reproof to a domestic +before a visitor or stranger. Nothing more surely evinces a vulgar +and unfeeling mind." + +I did not attempt to gainsay his remark, for he expressed but my own +sentiment. So far from uttering a reproof in the presence of a +visitor, I am careful not to speak to my domestics about any fault +even in the presence of my husband. They have a certain respect for +themselves, and a certain delicacy of feeling, which we should +rather encourage than break down. Nearly all domestics are careful +to appear as well as possible in the eyes of the head of the family, +and it hurts them exceedingly to be reproved, or angrily spoken to, +before him. This every woman ought to know by instinct, and those +who do not are just so far deficient in the aggregate of qualities +that go to make up the true lady. + +I was by no means surprised to hear from Mrs. Jones, a few days +afterwards, that the "good-for-nothing creature" who waited upon the +table on the occasion of our taking tea at her house, had gone away +and left her. I thought better of the girl for having the spirit to +resent, in this way, the outrage committed upon her feelings. +Domestics have rights and feelings; and if people were to regard +these more, and treat them with greater kindness and consideration +than they do, there would be fewer complaints than there are at +present. This is my opinion, and I must be pardoned for expressing +it. + + + + +HAVEN'T THE CHANGE. + + +IT was house-cleaning time, and I had an old coloured woman at work +scrubbing and cleaning paint. + +"Polly is going, ma'am," said one of my domestics, as the twilight +began to fall. + +"Very well. Tell her that I shall want her tomorrow." + +"I think she would like to have her money for to-day's work," said +the girl. + +I took out my purse, and found that I had nothing in it less than a +three-dollar bill. + +"How much does she have a day?" + +"Six shillings, ma'am." + +"I haven't the change this evening. Tell her that I'll pay for both +days to-morrow." + +The girl left the room, and I thought no more of Polly for an hour. +Tea-time had come and passed, when one of my domestics, who was +rather communicative in her habits, said to me: + +"I don't think old Polly liked your not paying her this evening." + +"She must be very unreasonable, then," said I, without reflection. +"I sent her word that I had no change. How did she expect I could +pay her?" + +"Some people are queer, you know, Mrs. Graham," remarked the girl +who had made the communication, more for the pleasure of telling it +than any thing else. + +I kept thinking over what the girl had said, until other suggestions +came into my mind. + +"I wish I had sent and got a bill changed," said I, as the idea that +Polly might be really in want of money intruded itself. "It would +have been very little trouble." + +This was the beginning of a new train of reflections, which did not +make me very happy. To avoid a little trouble, I had sent the poor +old woman away, after a hard day's work, without her money. That she +stood in need of it was evident from the fact that she had asked for +it. + +"How very thoughtless in me," said I, as I dwelt longer and longer +on the subject. + +"What's the matter?" inquired my husband, seeing me look serious. + +"Nothing to be very much troubled at," I replied. + +"Yet you are troubled." + +"I am; and cannot help it. You will, perhaps, smile at me, but small +causes sometimes produce much pain. Old Polly has been at work all +day, scrubbing and cleaning. When night came, she asked for her +wages, and I, instead of taking the trouble to get the money for +her, sent her word that I hadn't the change. There was nothing less +than a three-dollar bill in my purse. I didn't reflect that a poor +old woman who has to go out to daily work must need her money as +soon as it is earned. I am very sorry." + +My husband did not reply for some time. My words appeared to have +made considerable impression on his mind. + +"Do you know where Polly lives?" he inquired at length. + +"No; but I will ask the girl." And immediately ringing the bell, I +made inquiries as to where Polly lived; but no one in the house +knew. + +"It cannot be helped now," said my husband, in a tone of regret. +"But I would be more thoughtful in future. The poor always have need +of their money. Their daily labour rarely does more than supply +their daily wants. I can never forget a circumstance that occurred +when I was a boy. My mother was left a widow when I was but nine +years old--and she was poor. It was by the labour of her hands that +she obtained shelter and food for herself and three little ones. + +"Once, I remember the occurrence as if it had taken place yesterday, +we were out of money and food. At breakfast-time our last morsel was +eaten, and we went through the long day without a mouthful of bread. +We all grew very hungry by night; but our mother encouraged us to be +patient a little and a little while longer, until she finished the +garment she was making, when she would take that and some other work +home to a lady who would pay her for the work. Then, she said, we +should have a nice supper. At last the work was finished, and I went +with my mother to help carry it home, for she was weak and sickly, +and even a light burden fatigued her. The lady for whom she had made +the garment was in good circumstances, and had no want unmet that +money could supply. When we came into her presence, she took the +work, and, after glancing at it carelessly, said, + +"'It will do very well.' + +"My mother lingered; perceiving which, the lady said, rather rudely, + +"'You want your money, I suppose. How much does the work come to?' + +"'Two dollars,' replied my mother. The lady took out her purse; and, +after looking through a small parcel of bills, said, + +"'I haven't the change this evening. Call over anytime, and you +shall have it.' + +"And without giving my mother time more earnestly to urge her +request, turned from us and left the room. I never shall forget the +night that followed. My mother's feelings were sensitive and +independent. She could not make known her want. An hour after our +return home, she sat weeping with her children around her, when a +neighbour came in, and, learning our situation, supplied the present +need." + +This relation did not make me feel any the more comfortable. +Anxiously I waited, on the next morning, the arrival of Polly. As +soon as she came I sent for her, and, handing her the money she had +earned on the day before, said, + +"I'm sorry I hadn't the change for you last night, Polly. I hope you +didn't want it very badly." + +Polly hesitated a little, and then replied, + +"Well, ma'am, I did want it very much, or I wouldn't have asked for +it. My poor daughter Hetty is sick, and I wanted to get her +something nice to eat." + +"I'm very sorry," said I, with sincere regret. "How is Hetty this +morning?" + +"She isn't so well, ma'am. And I feel very bad about her." + +"Come up to me in half an hour, Polly," said I. + +The old woman went down-stairs. When she appeared again, according +to my desire, I had a basket for her, in which were some wine, +sugar, fruit, and various little matters that I thought her daughter +would relish, and told her to go at once and take them to the sick +girl. Her expressions of gratitude touched my feelings deeply. Never +since have I omitted, under any pretence, to pay the poor their +wages as soon as earned. + + + + +OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN. + + +"IF that were my child, I'd soon break him of such airs and capers. +Only manage him right, and he'll be as good a boy as can be found +anywhere." + +"Very few people appear to have any right government over their +children." + +"Very few. Here is my sister; a sensible woman enough, and one would +think the very person to raise, in order and obedience, a family of +eight children. But she doesn't manage them rightly; and, what is +remarkable, is exceedingly sensitive, and won't take kindly the +slightest hint from me on the subject. If I say to her, 'If that +were my child, Sarah, I would do so and so,' she will be almost sure +to retort something about old maids' children." + +"Yes, that's the way. No matter how defective the family government +of any one may be, she will not allow others to suggest +improvements." + +"It would not be so with me. If I had a family of children, I should +not only see their faults, but gladly receive hints from all sides +as to their correction." + +"It's the easiest thing in the world to govern children, if you go +the right way about it." + +"I know. There is nothing easier. And yet my sister will say, +sometimes, that she is perfectly at a loss what to do. But no +wonder. Like hundreds of others, she has let her children get +completely ahead of her. If they don't break her heart in the end, I +shall be glad." + +The immediate cause of this conversation between Miss Martha Spencer +and a maiden lady who had been twenty-five for some ten or fifteen +years--Miss Spencer could not be accused of extensive +juvenility--was the refractory conduct of Mrs. Fleetwood's oldest +child, a boy between six and seven years of age, by which a pleasant +conversation had been interrupted, and the mother obliged to leave +the room for a short period. + +"I think, with you," said Miss Jones, the visitor, "that Mrs. +Fleetwood errs very greatly in the management of her children." + +"Management! She has no management at all," interrupted Miss +Spencer. + +"In not managing her children, then, if you will." + +"So I have told her, over and over again, but to no good purpose. +She never receives it kindly. Why, if I had a child, I would never +suffer it to cry after it was six months old. It is the easiest +thing in the world to prevent it. And yet, one of Sarah's children +does little else but fret and cry all the time. She insists upon it +that it can't feel well. And suppose this to be the case?--crying +does it no good, but, in reality, a great deal of harm. If it is +sick, it has made itself so by crying." + +"Very likely. I've known many such instances," remarked Miss Jones. + +Mrs. Fleetwood, returning at the moment, checked this train of +conversation. She did not allude to the circumstance that caused her +to leave the room, but endeavoured to withdraw attention from it by +some pleasant remarks calculated to interest the visitor and give +the thoughts of all a new direction. + +"I hope you punished Earnest, as he deserved to be," said her +sister, as soon as Miss Jones had retired. "I never saw such a +child!" + +"He certainly behaved badly," returned Mrs. Fleetwood, speaking in +an absent manner. + +"He behaved outrageously! If I had a child, and he were to act as +Earnest did this morning, I'd teach him a lesson that he would not +forget in a year." + +"No doubt your children will be under very good government, Martha," +said Mrs. Fleetwood, a little sarcastically. + +"If they are not under better government than yours, I'll send them +all to the House of Refuge," retorted Miss Martha. + +The colour on Mrs. Fleetwood's cheeks grew warmer at this remark, +but she thought it best not to reply in a manner likely to provoke a +further insulting retort, and merely said-- + +"If ever you come to have children of your own, sister, you will be +able to understand, better than you now do, a mother's trials, +doubts, and difficulties. At present, you think you know a great +deal about managing children, but you know nothing." + +"I know," replied Martha, "that I could manage my own children a +great deal better than you manage yours." + +"If such should prove to be the case, no one will be more rejoiced +at the result than I. But I look, rather, to see your children, if +you should ever become a mother, worse governed than most people's." + +"You do?" + +"Yes, I do." + +"And why, pray?" + +"Because my own observation tells me, that those persons who are +most inclined to see defects in family government, and to find fault +with other people's management of their children, are apt to have +the most unruly young scape-graces in their houses to be found +anywhere." + +"That's all nonsense. The fact that a person observes and reflects +ought to make that person better qualified to act." + +"Right observation and reflection, no doubt, will. But right +observation and reflection in regard to children will make any one +modest and fearful on the subject of their right government, rather +than bold and boastful. Those who, like you, think themselves so +well qualified to manage children, usually make the worst managers." + +"It's all very well for you to talk in that way," said Martha, +tossing her head. "But, if I ever have children of my own, I'll show +you whether I have the worst young scape-graces to be found +anywhere." + +A low, fretful cry, or rather whine, had been heard from a child +near the door of the room, for some time. It was one of those +annoying, irritating cries, that proceed more from a fretful state +of mind than from any adequate external exciting cause. Martha +paused a moment, and then added-- + +"Do you think I would suffer a child to cry about the house half of +its time, as Ellen does? No, indeed. I'd soon settle that." + +"How would you do it?" + +"I'd make her stop crying." + +"Suppose you couldn't?" + +"Couldn't! That's not the way for a mother to talk." + +"Excuse me, Martha," said Mrs. Fleetwood, rising. "I would rather +not hear such remarks from you, and now repeat what I have before +said, more than once, that I wish you to leave me free to do what I +think right in my own family; as I undoubtedly will leave you +free, if ever you should have one." + +And Mrs. Fleetwood left the room, and taking the little girl who was +crying at the door by the hand, led her up stairs. + +"What is the matter, Ellen?" she asked as calmly and as soothingly +as the irritating nature of Ellen's peculiar cry or whine would +permit her. + +"Earnest won't play with me," replied the child, still crying. + +"Come up into my room, and see if there isn't something pretty there +to play with." + +"No--I don't want to," was the crying answer. + +"Yes; come." And Mrs. Fleetwood led along the resisting child. + +"No--no--no--I don't want to go. I want Earnest to play with me." + +"Humph! I'd stop that pretty quick!" remarked Miss Spencer to +herself, as the petulant cry of the child grew louder. "I'd never +allow a child of mine to go on like that." + +Mrs. Fleetwood felt disturbed. But experience had taught her that +whenever she spoke from an irritated state, her words rather +increased than allayed the evil she sought to correct. So she drew +the child along with her, using some force in order to do it, until +she reached her chamber. Her strongest impulse, on being alone with +Ellen, who still continued crying, was to silence her instantly by +the most summary process to which parental authority usually has +resort in such cases; but her mother's heart suggested the better +plan of diverting Ellen's mind, if possible, and thus getting it +into a happier state. In order to do this, she tried various means, +but without effect. The child still cried on, and in a manner so +disturbing to the mother, that she found it almost impossible to +keep from enforcing silence by a stern threat of instant punishment. +But, she kept on, patiently doing what she thought to be right, and +was finally successful in soothing the unhappy child. To her +husband, with whom she was conversing on that evening about the +state into which Ellen had fallen, she said-- + +"I find it very hard to get along with her. She tires my patience +almost beyond endurance. Sometimes it is impossible to bear with her +crying, and I silence it by punishment. But I observe that if I can +produce a cheerful state by amusing her and getting her interested +in some play or employment, she retains her even temper much longer +than when she has been stopped from crying by threats or punishment. +If I only had patience with her, I could get along better. But it is +so hard to have patience with a fretful, ever crying child." + +Of the mental exercises through which Mrs. Fleetwood passed, Miss +Martha Spencer knew nothing. She saw only the real and supposed +errors of her mode of government, and strongly condemned them. Her +doctrine was, in governing children, "implicit obedience must be had +at all hazards." At all hazards, as she generally expressed or +thought it was only meant for extreme or extraordinary cases. +Obedience she believed to be a thing easily obtained by any one who +chose to enforce it. No where, it must be owned, did she see +children as orderly and obedient as she thought they should be. But +that she did not hesitate to set down to the fault of the parents. +Her influence in the family of her sister was not good. To some +extent she destroyed the freedom of Mrs. Fleetwood, and to some +extent disturbed the government of her children by interfering with +it, and attempting to make the little ones do as she thought best. +Her interference was borne about as well as it could be by her +sister, who now and then gave her a "piece of her mind," and in +plain, straight forward terms. Mrs. Fleetwood's usual remark, when +Martha talked about what she would do, if she had children, was a +good humoured one, and generally something after this fashion-- + +"Old maids' children are the best in the world, I know. They never +cry, are never disobedient, and never act disorderly." + +Martha hardly relished this mode of "stopping her off," but it was +generally effective, though sometimes it produced a slight +ebullition. + +At last, though the chances in favour of matrimony had become +alarmingly few, Martha was wooed, won, and married to a gentleman +named Laurie, who removed with her to the West. + +"There is some prospect at last," Mrs. Fleetwood said to her +husband, with a smile, on the occasion of Martha's wedding, "of +sister's being able to bring into practice her theories in regard to +family government. I only hope the mother's children may be as good +as the old maid's." + +"I doubt if they will," remarked the husband, smiling in turn. + +"We shall see." + +Years passed, and Martha, now Mrs. Laurie, remained in the West. Her +sister frequently heard from her by letter, and every now and then +received the announcement of a fine babe born to the proud mother; +who as often spoke of her resolution to do her duty towards her +children, and especially in the matter of enforcing obedience. She +still talked eloquently of the right modes of domestic government, +and the high and holy duties of parents. + +"Let me be blamable in what I may," said she, in one of these +letters, "it shall not be a disregard to the best interests of my +children." + +"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Fleetwood, after reading the passage +to her husband. "But those who really understand the true character +of children, and are sensible of the fact that they inherit from +their parents all the evil and disorderly tendencies not fully +overcome in themselves, feel too deeply the almost hopeless task +they assume, to boast much of what they will do with _their_ +children. A humble, reserved, even trembling consciousness of the +difficulties in the way of the parent, is the most promising state +in which a parent can assume his or her responsibilities. To look +for perfect order and obedience is to look for what never comes. Our +duty is to sow good seed in the minds of our children, and to see +that the ground be kept as free from evil weeds as possible. The +time of fruit is not until reason is developed; and we err in +expecting fruit at an early period. There will come the tender +blade, green and pleasant to the eye, and the firm, upright stalk, +with its leaves and its branches; and flowers, too, after a while, +beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers; but the fruit of all our labour, +of all our careful culture, appears not until reason takes the place +of mere obedience, and the child becomes the man. This view saves me +from many discouragements; and leads me, in calm and patient hope, +to persevere, even though through months, and, I might almost say, +years, little prospect of ultimate fruit becomes apparent. But, good +seed must bring forth good fruit." + +After a while, Mrs. Laurie ceased to write in her old strain. She +sometimes spoke of her two eldest sons as fine boys, and of her two +little girls as dear, sweet creatures; but generally omitted saying +any thing more about her family than that all were in good health. + +Ten years after Martha's marriage and removal to the West, during +which time the sisters had not met, business required Mr. Fleetwood +to go to Cincinnati, and he proposed that his wife should accompany +him, and pay a visit to Mrs. Laurie, who lived in Springfield, Ohio. +Mrs. Fleetwood readily consented, and they started in the pleasant +month of October. + +On arriving at Springfield, they were met by Mr. Laurie at the +stage-office and taken to his house, where the sisters met, +overjoyed at seeing each other once more. + +"Is that one of your children?" asked Mrs. Fleetwood, after she had +laid aside her bonnet and riding-dress, and seated herself in her +sister's chamber. A red-faced boy, with pouting lips, and a brow +naturally or artificially so heavy as almost to conceal his organs +of vision, stood holding on to one side of the door, and swinging +himself in and out, all the while eyeing fixedly his aunt, of whose +intended visit he had been advised. + +"Yes, that is my oldest. Henry, come here and speak to your aunty." + +But Henry did not change either attitude, motion, nor expression, +any more than if he had been a swinging automaton. + +"Did you hear me?" Mrs. Laurie spoke with a slight change in her +voice and manner. + +The boy remained as impassive as before. + +"Come, dear, and shake hands with me," said Mrs. Fleetwood. + +Henry now put one of his thumbs into his mouth, but neither looked +nor acted less savagely than at first. + +Mrs. Laurie was fretted at this unfavourable exhibition of himself +by her son. She felt as if she would like to get hold of him and box +his ears until they burned for a week. + +"Henry! Come here!" She spoke in a tone of command. The door was +quite as much impressed as her son. + +"Either come and speak to your aunty, or go down-stairs +immediately." + +The boy moved not. + +This was too much for Mrs. Laurie, and she started towards him. +Henry let go of the door, and went down-stairs about as quietly as a +horse would have gone. + +"He's such a strange, shy boy," said Mrs. Laurie, apologetically. +"But he has a good heart, and you can do almost any thing with him. +How is Earnest? the dear little fellow." + +"Earnest is almost a man. He is as large as I am," replied Mrs. +Fleetwood. + +"Indeed! I can't think of him as any thing but a bright little boy, +not so large as my Henry." + +As she said this, her Henry, who had gone clattering down-stairs a +few moments before, presented himself at the door again, and +commenced swinging himself, and taking observations of the state of +affairs within the chamber. The mother and aunt both concluded +within their own minds that it was as well not to take any notice of +him, and therefore went on with their conversation. Presently a +happy, singing voice was heard upon the stairs. + +"There comes my little Martha, the light of the whole house," said +Mrs. Laurie. In a few moments, a sweet-faced child presented +herself, and was about entering, when Henry stepped into the door, +and, putting a foot against each side, blocked up the way. Martha +attempted to pass the rude boy, and, in doing so, fell over one of +his feet, and struck her face a severe blow upon the floor. The loud +scream of the hurt child, the clattering of Henry down-stairs, and +the excited exclamation of the mother as she sprang forward, were +simultaneous. Mr. Laurie and Mr. Fleetwood came running up from the +room below, and arrived in time to see a gush of blood from the nose +of Martha, as her mother raised her from the floor. + +"Isn't it too much!" exclaimed Mrs. Laurie. "I think that it is the +worst boy I ever saw in my life!" + +The application of a little cold water soon staunched the flow of +blood, and a few kind words soothed the feelings of the child, who +sat in her mother's lap, and answered her aunt when she spoke to +her, like a little lady, as she was. + +"Where are the rest of your children?" asked Mrs. Fleetwood. The +gentlemen were now seated with the ladies. + +"You've had a pretty fair sample of them," replied Mr. Laurie, +smiling good humouredly, "and may as well be content with that for +the present. To say the best of them, they are about as wild a set +of young scape-graces as ever made each other miserable, and their +parents, too, sometimes." + +"Why, Mr. Laurie!" exclaimed his wife, who had not forgotten her old +opinions, freely expressed, about the ease with which children could +be governed. "I'm sure you needn't say that. I think our children +quite as good as other people's, and a little better than some I +could name." + +"Well, perhaps they are, and nothing to brag of at that," replied +Mr. Laurie. "Children are children, and you can't make any thing +more out of them." + +"But children should be made orderly and obedient," said Mrs. +Laurie, with some dignity of expression. + +"If they can," pleasantly returned the father. "So far, we, at +least, have not succeeded to our wishes in this respect. As to order +and obedience, they seem to be cardinal sins rather than cardinal +virtues, at present. But I hope better things after a while." + +As this was said, some one was heard tumbling rather than walking +up-stairs, and, in a moment after, in bolted a boy about seven years +old, crying out-- + +"Hen' says Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood have come! Have they, mom?" + +The boy stopped short on perceiving that strangers were present. + +"Yes, my son, your Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood are here," said Mr. +Fleetwood, reaching out his hand to the little fellow. Remembering +Martha's former rigid notions about the government of children, he +felt so much amused by what he saw, that he could hardly help +laughing out immoderately. "Come here," he added, "and let me talk +to you." + +The boy went without hesitation to his uncle, who took him by the +hand and said, with a half wicked glance at the mother, yet with a +broad good humoured smile upon his face, + +"That must be a very knowing hen of yours. I should like to have +some of her chickens." + +"What hen?" asked the boy, with a serious air. + +"Why, the hen that told you we were here." + +"No hen told me that." The boy looked mystified. + +"Oh! I thought you said Hen' told you so." + +"No, it was Henry." + +"Say, no _sir_, my son." Mrs. Laurie's face was not pale, certainly, +as she said this. + +The boy did not think it worth while to repeat the formality. + +"Oh! it was your brother Henry," replied Mr. Fleetwood, with +affected seriousness. "I thought that must have been a very knowing +hen." The boy, and his sister who had recovered from the pain of her +fall, laughed heartily. "Now tell me your name?" + +"John." + +"Say John, _sir_. Where are your manners?" spoke up the mother, who +remembered that, with all her sister's imperfect management of her +children, she had succeeded in teaching them to be very respectful +in their replies to older persons, and that Earnest, when she last +saw him, was a little gentleman in his manners when amy one spoke to +him. + +"Mo-_ther_!" came now ringing up the stairs, in a loud, screeching +little voice. "Mo-_ther_! Hen' won't let me come up." + +"I declare! That boy is too bad! He's a perfect torment!" said Mrs. +Laurie, fretfully. "I'm out of all heart with him." + +The father stepped to the head of the stairs, and spoke rather +sternly to the rebellious Henry. Little feet, were soon heard +pattering up, and the youngest of the young hopefuls made her +appearance, and, soon after, Henry pushed his really repulsive face +into the door and commenced grimacing at the other children, thereby +succeeding in what he desired to do, viz., starting little Maggy, +the youngest, into a whining, fretful cry, because "Hen' was making +faces" at her. This cry, once commenced, was never known to end +without the application of something more decided in its effects +than words. It was in vain that the mother used every persuasive, +diverting and soothing means in her power: the crying, loud enough +to drown all conversation, continued, until, taking the child up +hurriedly in her arms, she bore her into another room, where she +applied some pretty severe silencing measures, which had, however, +the contrary effect to that desired. The child cried on, but louder +than before. For nearly ten minutes, she sought by scolding and +whipping to silence her, but all was in vain. It is doubtful, after +the means used to enforce silence, whether the child could have +stopped if she had tried. At last, the mother locked her in a +closet, and came, with a flushed face and mortified feelings, back +to the room from which she had retired with Maggy. + +The moment Mrs. Laurie left, her husband, with a word and a look, +brought the three children into order and quietness. Henry was told, +in a low voice, and in a tone of authority, that he never thought of +questioning, to go up into the garret and remain there until he sent +for him. The boy retired without the slightest hesitation. + +When Mrs. Laurie returned, Mr. Fleetwood, who was a man of frank, +free, and pleasant manners, could not resist the temptation he felt +to remind her of the past; he, therefore, said, laughingly, + +"You have doubtless found out, by this time, Martha, that old maids' +children are the best." + +This sally had just the effect he designed it to have. It was an +apology for the children, as it classed them with other real +children, in contradistinction to the imaginary offspring of the +unmarried, that are known by every one to be faultless specimens of +juvenility. + +"Come! That is too bad, Mr. Fleetwood," replied Mrs. Laurie, feeling +an immediate sense of relief. "But, I own to the error I committed +before marriage. It seemed to me the easiest thing in the world to +manage children, when I thought about it, and saw where parents +erred, or appeared to err, in their modes of government. I did not +then know what was _in_ children. All their perverseness I laid to +the account of bad management. Alas! I have had some sad experiences +in regard to my error. Still, I cannot but own that children are +made worse by injudicious treatment, and also, that mine ought to be +a great deal better than they are." + +"Like the rest of us," returned Mr. Fleetwood, "you have no doubt +discovered, that it is one thing to _think_ about the government of +children, and another thing to be in the midst of their disturbing +sphere, and yet act as if you did not feel it. Theory and practice +are two things. It seems, when we think coolly, that nothing can be +easier than to cause the one exactly to correspond to the other. But +whoever makes the trial, especially where the right government of +children is concerned, will find it a most difficult matter. What +makes the government of their children so hard a thing for parents, +is the fact that the evils of the children have been inherited from +them, and therefore the reaction of these evils upon themselves is +the more disturbing. We haven't as much patience with the faults of +our own children, often, as other people have. They fret and annoy +us, and take away our ability to speak in a proper tone and act with +becoming dignity toward them, and thus destroy their respect for +us." + +"Nothing can be truer," said Mrs. Laurie. "I stand rebuked. I am +self-condemned, every day, on this very account. I used to think +that your government and that of Sarah's over your children very +defective. But it was far better than the government that I have +been able to exercise over mine. Ah me!" + +"Don't sigh over the matter so terribly, Martha," spoke up the +husband. "We shall get them right in the end. Never give up the +ship, is my motto in this and every thing else. But I wouldn't have +our brother and sister here think for a moment that the scenes they +have witnessed are enacted every day. Their visit is an occasion of +some excitement to our young folks, and they had to show off a +little. They will cool down again, and we shall get on pleasantly +enough." + +"That is all very true," said Mrs. Laurie, more cheerfully. "I never +saw them act quite so outrageously before, when any one came in. +There is much good in them, and you will see it before you leave +us." + +"No doubt in the world of that," replied Mr. Fleetwood; "there is +good in all children, and it is our duty to exercise great +forbearance towards their evils, and be careful lest, by what we do +or say, we strengthen, rather than break them." + +And the good that was in Mrs. Laurie's children was clearly seen by +Mr. and Mrs. Fleetwood during their stay; but, that good was, alas! +not strengthened as it might have been, nor were the evils they +inherited kept quiescent, as they would to a great extent have +remained, had the mother been more patient and forbearing--had her +practice been as good as her theory. + +It is easy for us to see how others ought to act toward their +children, but very hard for us to act right toward our own. + + + + +THE MOTHER AND BOY. + + +"TOM, let that alone!" exclaimed a mother, petulantly, to a boy +seven years old, who was playing with a tassel that hung from one of +the window-blinds, to the imminent danger of its destruction. + +The boy did not seem to hear, but kept on fingering the tassel. + +"Let that be, I tell you! Must I speak a hundred times? Why don't +you mind at once?" + +The child slowly relinquished his hold of the tassel, and commenced +running his hand up and down the venitian blind. + +"There! there! Do for gracious sake let them blinds alone. Go 'way +from the window this moment, and try and keep your hands off of +things. I declare! you are the most trying child I ever saw." + +Tom left the window and threw himself at full length into the +cradle, where he commenced rocking himself with a force and rapidity +that made every thing crack again. + +"Get out of that cradle! What do you mean? The child really seems +possessed!" And the mother caught him by the arm and jerked him from +the cradle. + +Tom said nothing, but, with the most imperturbable air in the world, +walked twice around the room, and then pushing a chair up before the +dressing-bureau, took therefrom a bottle of hair lustral, and, +pouring the palm of his little hand full of the liquid, commenced +rubbing it upon his head. Twice had this operation been performed, +and Tom was pulling open a drawer to get the hair-brush, when the +odour of the oily compound reached the nostrils of the lad's mother, +who was sitting with her back toward him. Turning quickly, she saw +what was going on. + +"You!" fell angrily from her lips, as she dropped the baby in the +cradle. "Isn't it too much!" she continued, as she swept across the +room to where Tom was standing before the bureau-dressing-glass. + +"There, sir!" and the child's ear rang with the box he received. +"There, sir!" and the box was repeated. "Haven't I told you a +hundred times not to touch that hair-oil? Just see what a spot of +grease you've made on the carpet! Look at your hands!" + +Tom looked at his hands, and, seeing them full of oil, clapped them +quickly down upon his jacket, and tried to rub them clean. + +"There! stop! mercy! Now see your new jacket that you put on this +morning. Grease from top to bottom! Isn't it too bad! I am in +despair!" And the mother let her hands fall by her side, and her +body drop into a chair. + +"It's no use to try," she continued; "I'll give up. Just see that +jacket! it's totally ruined; and that carpet, too. Was there ever +such a trying boy! Go down-stairs this instant, and tell Jane to +come up here." + +Tom had reason to know that his mother was not in a mood to be +trifled with, so he went off briskly and called Jane, who was +directed to get some fuller's earth and put upon the carpet where +oil had been spilled. + +Not at all liking the atmosphere of his mother's room, Tom, being +once in the kitchen, felt no inclination to return. His first work +there, after delivering his message to Jane, was to commence turning +the coffee-mill. + +"Tommy," said the cook, mildly, yet firmly, "you know I've told you +that it was wrong to touch the coffee-mill. See here, on the floor, +where you have scattered the coffee about, and now I must get a +broom and sweep it up. If you do so, I can't let you come down +here." + +The boy stood and looked at the cook seriously, while she got the +broom and swept up the dirt he had made. + +"It's all clean again now," said the cook, pleasantly. "And you +won't do so any more, will you?" + +"No, I won't touch the coffee-mill." And, as Tom said this, he +sidled up to the knife-box that stood upon the dresser, and made a +dive into it with his hand. + +"Oh, no, no, no, Tommy! that won't do, either," said the cook. "The +knives have all been cleaned, and they are to go on the table to eat +with." + +"Then what can I play with, Margaret?" asked the child, as he left +the dresser. "I want something to play with." + +The cook thought a moment, and then went to a closet and brought out +a little basket filled with clothes-pins. As she held them in her +hand, she said--"Tommy, if you will be careful not to break any of +these, nor scatter them about, you may have them to play with. But +remember, now, that as soon as you begin to throw them around the +room, I will put them up again." + +"Oh, no, I won't throw them about," said the little fellow, with +brightening eyes, as he reached out for the basket of pins. + +In a little while he had a circle formed on the table, which he +called his fort; and inside of this he had men, cannon, +sentry-boxes, and other things that were suggested to his fancy. + +"Where's Thomas?" asked his mother, about the time he had become +fairly interested in his fort. + +"I left him down in the kitchen," replied Jane. + +"Go down and tell him to come up here instantly." + +Down went Jane. + +"Come along up-stairs to your mother," said she. + +"No, I won't," replied the boy. + +"Very well, mister! You can do as you like; but your mother sent for +you." + +"Tell mother I am playing here so good. I'm not in any mischief. Am +I, Margaret?" + +"No, Tommy; but your mother has sent for you, and you had better +go." + +"I don't want to." + +"Just as you like," said Jane, indifferently, as she left the +kitchen and went up-stairs. + +"Where's Thomas?" was the question with which she was met on +returning to the chamber. + +"He won't come, ma'am." + +"Go and tell him that if he doesn't come up to me instantly, I will +put on his night-clothes and shut him up in the closet." + +The threat of the closet was generally uttered ten times where it +was executed once; it made but little impression upon the child, who +was all absorbed in his fort. + +Jane returned. In a few moments afterward, the quick, angry voice of +the mother was heard ringing down the stairway. + +"You, Tom! come up here this instant." + +"I'm not troubling any thing, mother." + +"Come up, I say!" + +"Margaret says I may play with the clothes-pins. I'm only building a +fort with them." + +"Do you hear me?" + +"Mother!" + +"Tom! if you don't come to me this instant, I'll almost skin you. +Margaret! take them clothes-pins away. Pretty playthings, indeed, +for you to give a boy like him! No wonder I have to get a dozen new +ones every two or three months." + +Margaret now spoke. + +"Tommy, you must go up to your mother." + +She now took the clothes-pins and commenced putting them into the +basket where they belonged. Her words and action had a more instant +effect than all the mother's storm of passion. The boy left the +kitchen in tears, and went slowly up-stairs. + +"Why didn't you come when I called you? Say!" + +The mother seized her little boy by the arm the moment he came in +reach of her, and dragged rather than led him up-stairs, uttering +such exclamations as these by the way: + +"I never saw such a child! You might as well talk to the wind! I'm +in despair! I'll give up! Humph! clothes-pins, indeed! Pretty +playthings to give a child! Every thing goes to rack and ruin! +There!" + +And, as the last word was uttered, Tommy was thrust into his +mother's room with a force that nearly threw him prostrate. + +"Now take off them clothes, sir." + +"What for, mother? I haven't done any thing! I didn't hurt the +clothes-pins; Margaret said I might play with them." + +"D'ye hear? take off them clothes, I say!" + +"I didn't do any thing, mother." + +"A word more, and I'll box your ears until they ring for a month. +Take off them clothes, I say! I'll teach you to come when I send for +you! I'll let you know whether I am to be minded or not!" + +Tommy slowly disrobed himself, while his mother, fretted to the +point of resolution, eyed him with unrelenting aspect. The jacket +and trousers were removed, and his night-clothes put on in their +stead, Tommy all the while protesting tearfully that he had done +nothing. + +"Will you hush?" was all the satisfaction he received for his +protestations. + +"Now, Jane, take him up-stairs to bed; he's got to lie there all the +afternoon." + +It was then four, and the sun did not set until near eight o'clock. +Up-stairs the poor child had to go, and then his mother found some +quiet. Her babe slept soundly in the cradle, undisturbed by Tommy's +racket, and she enjoyed a new novel to the extent of almost entirely +forgetting her lonely boy shut up in the chamber above. + +"Where's Tommy?" asked a friend, who dropped in about six o'clock. + +"In bed," said the mother, with a sigh. + +"What's the matter? Is he sick?" + +"Oh, no. I almost wish he were." + +"What a strange wish! Why do you wish so?" + +"Oh, because he is like a little angel when he is sick--as good as +he can be. I had to send him to bed as a punishment for +disobedience. He is a hard child to manage; I think I never saw one +just like him; but, you know, obedience is every thing. It is our +duty to require a strict regard to this in our children." + +"Certainly. If they do not obey their parents as children, they will +not obey the laws as men." + +"That is precisely the view I take; and I make it a point to require +implicit obedience in my boy. This is my duty as a parent; but I +find it hard work." + +"It is hard, doubtless. Still we must persevere, and, in patience, +possessing our souls." + +"To be patient with a boy like mine is a hard task. Sometimes I feel +as if I should go wild." said the mother. + +"But, under the influence of such a feeling," remarked the friend, +"what we say makes little or no impression. A calmly uttered word, +in which there is an expression of interest in and sympathy for the +child, does more than the sternest commands. This I have long since +discovered. I never scold my children; scolding does no good, but +harm. My oldest boy is restless, excitable, and impulsive. If I were +not to provide him with the means of employing himself, or in other +ways divert him, his hands would be on every thing in the house, and +both he and I made unhappy." + +"But how can you interest him?" + +"In various ways. Sometimes I read to him; sometimes I set him to +doing things by way of assisting me. I take him out when I can, and +let him go with the girls when I send them on errands. I provide him +with playthings that are suited to his age. In a word, I try to keep +him in my mind; and, therefore, find it not very difficult to meet +his varying states. I never thrust him aside, and say I am too busy +to attend to him, when he comes with a request. If I cannot grant +it, I try not to say 'no,' for that word comes too coldly upon the +eager desire of an ardent-minded boy." + +"But how can you help saying 'no,' if the request is one you cannot +grant?" + +"Sometimes I ask if something else will not do as well; and +sometimes I endeavour to create a new interest in his mind. There +are various ways in which it may be done, that readily suggest +themselves to those desirous for the good of their children. It is +affection that inspires thought. The love of children always brings +a quick intelligence touching their good." + +Much more was said, not needful here to repeat. When the friend went +away, Tommy's mother, whose heart convicted her of wrong to her +little boy, went up to the room where she had sent him to spend four +or five lonely hours as a punishment for what was, in reality, her +own fault, and not his. Three hours of the weary time had already +passed. She did not remember to have heard a sound from him, since +she drove him away with angry words. In fact, she had been too +deeply interested in the new book she was reading, to have heard any +noise that was not of an extraordinary character. + +At the door of the chamber she stood and listened for a moment. All +was silent within. The mother's heart beat with a heavy motion. On +entering, she found the order of the room undisturbed; not even a +chair was out of place. Tommy was asleep on the bed. As his mother +bent over him, she saw that tears were upon his cheeks and eyelids, +and that the pillow was wet. A choking sigh struggled up from her +bosom; she felt a rebuking consciousness of having wronged her +child. She laid her hand upon his red cheek, but drew it back +instantly; it was hot with fever. She caught up his hand; it was +also in a burning glow. Alarm took the place of grief for having +wronged her boy. She tried to awaken him, but he only moaned and +muttered. The excitement had brought on a fever. + +When the father came home and laid his hand upon the hot cheek of +his sleeping boy, he uttered an exclamation of alarm, and started +off instantly for a physician. All night the wretched mother watched +by her sick child, unable, from fear and self-reproaches, to sleep. +When the morning broke, and Thomas looked up into her face with a +gleam of trusting affection, his fever was gone and his pulse was +calm. The mother laid her cheek thankfully against that of her boy, +and prayed to Heaven for strength to bear with him, and wisdom to +guide her feet aright; and as she did so, in the silence of her +overflowing heart, the lad drew his arms around her neck, and, +kissing her, said--"Mother, I do love you!" + +That tears came gushing over the mother's face is no cause of +wonder, nor that she returned, half wildly, the embrace and kiss of +her child. + +Let us hope that, in her future conduct towards her ardent, restless +boy, she may be able to control herself; for then she will not find +it hard to bring him under subjection to what is right. + + + + +THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. + + +CHRISTMAS had come round again--merry old Christmas, with his +smiling face and wealth of good cheer; and every preparation had +been made by the Arlingtons for their annual Christmas party, which +was always a gay time for the young friends of the family. + +Some hundreds of miles away, in a quiet New-England village, lived +Mr. Archer, an uncle of Mr. Arlington. He was a good man; but being +a minister of the old school, and well advanced in years, he was +strongly prejudiced against all "fashionable follies," as he called +nearly every form of social recreation. Life was, in his eyes, too +solemn a thing to be wasted in any kind of trifling. In preaching +and praying, in pious meditation, and in going about to do good, +much of his time was passed; and another portion of it was spent in +reflecting upon and mourning over the thoughtless follies of the +world. He had no time for pleasure-taking; no heart to smile at the +passing foibles or merry humours of his fellow-men. + +Such was the Rev. Mr. Jason Archer--a good man, but with his mind +sadly warped through early prejudices, long confirmed. For years he +had talked of a journey to the city where his niece, to whom he was +much attached, resided. This purpose was finally carried out. It was +the day before Christmas, when Mrs. Arlington received a letter from +the old gentleman, announcing the fact that she might expect to see +him in a few hours, as he was about starting to pay her and her +family the long-intended visit. + +"Uncle Archer will be here to-morrow," said Mrs. Arlington to her +husband, as soon as she met him after receiving her letter. + +"Indeed! And so the good old gentleman has made a move at last?" + +"Yes; he's going to eat his Christmas dinner with us, he says." + +"So much the better. The pleasure of meeting him will increase the +joy of the occasion." + +"I am not so sure of that," replied Mrs. Arlington, looking a little +serious. "It would have been more pleasant to have received this +visit at almost any other time in the year." + +"Why so?" + +"You know his strong prejudices?" + +"Oh, against dancing, and all that?" + +"Yes; he thinks it a sin to dance." + +"Though I do not." + +"No; but it will take away half my pleasure to see him grieved at +any thing that takes place in my house." + +"He'll not be so weak as that." + +"He thinks it sin, and will be sadly pained at its occurrence. Is it +not possible to omit dancing for once?" + +"At the party to-morrow night?" + +"Yes." + +Mr. Arlington shook his head, as he replied-- + +"Don't think of such a thing. We will receive him with true +kindness, because we feel it towards the good old man. But we must +not cease to do what we know to be right, thus disappointing and +marring the pleasure of many, out of deference to a mere prejudice +of education in a single person. When we go to see him, we do not +expect that any change will be made out of deference to our +prejudices or peculiar opinions; and when he comes to see us, he +must be willing to tolerate what takes place in our family, even if +it does not meet his full approval. No, no; let us not think for a +moment of any change in affairs on this account. Uncle Archer hasn't +been present at a gay party nor seen dancing for almost half a +century. It may do him good to witness it now. At any rate, I feel +curious to see the experiment tried." + +Mrs. Arlington still argued for a little yielding in favour of the +good parson's prejudices, but her husband would not listen to such a +thing for a moment. Every thing, he said, must go on as usual. + +"A guest who comes into a family," he remarked, "should always +conform himself to the family order; then there is no reaction upon +him, and all are comfortable and happy. He is not felt as a thing +foreign and incongruous, but as homogeneous. To break up the usual +order, and to bend all to meet his personal prejudices and +peculiarities, is only to so disturb the family sphere as to make it +actually repellent. He is then felt as an unassimilated foreign +body, and all secretly desire his removal." + +"But something is due to old age!" urged Mrs. Arlington. + +"Yes; much. But, if age have not softened a man's prejudices against +a good thing in itself, I doubt very much if a deference to his +prejudice, such as you propose, will in the least benefit him. +Better let him come in contact with a happy circle, exhilarated by +music and dancing; and the chances are, that his heart will melt in +the scene rather than grow colder and harder. The fact is, as I +think of it more and more, the better pleased am I that Uncle Archer +is coming just at this time." + +But Mrs. Arlington felt troubled about the matter. Early on +Christmas morning, the old gentleman arrived, and was welcomed with +sincere affection by every member of the family. Mr. and Mrs. +Arlington had a daughter, named Grace, who was just entering her +eighteenth year. She was gentle and affectionate in disposition, and +drew to the side of Uncle Archer in a way that touched the old man's +feelings. He had not seen her before this, since she was a little +girl; and now, he could not keep his eyes off of her as she sat by +him, or moved about the room in his presence. + +"What a dear girl that is!" was his remark to her mother, many times +through the day. + +"She's a good girl," would simply reply Mrs. Arlington, speaking +almost without thought. Grace was a good girl; her mother felt this, +and from her heart her lips found utterance. + +It seemed, all through the day, that Grace could not do enough for +the old man's comfort. Once she drew him into her room, as he was +passing her door, to show him some pictures that she had painted. As +he sat looking at them, he noticed a small, handsomely bound Bible +on her table. Taking it up, he said-- + +"Do you read this, Grace?" + +"Oh, yes," she replied, "every day." And there was such a light of +goodness in her eyes, as she looked up into his face, that Mr. +Archer felt, for a moment or two, as if the countenance of an angel +was before him. + +"Why do you read it?" he continued after a pause. + +"It teaches us the way to heaven," said Grace. + +"And you are trying to live for heaven?" + +"I try to shun all evil as sin. Can I do more?" + +All the minister's creeds, and doctrines, and confessions of faith, +which he had ever considered the foundations upon which Christian +life was to be built, seemed, for a moment or two, useless lumber +before the simple creed of this loving, pure-hearted maiden. To seek +to disturb this state of innocence and obedience by moody polemics, +he felt, instinctively, to be wrong. + +"Perhaps not," was his half abstracted reply; "perhaps not. Yes, +yes; shun what is evil, and the Lord will adjoin the good." + +"Yes, yes; she _is_ a good girl, as her mother says," was frequently +repeated by Uncle Archer during the day, when he would think of +Grace. + +Evening came, and young and old began to gather in the parlours. The +minister was introduced to one and another, as they arrived, and was +much gratified with the respect and attention shown to him by all. +Grace soon drew around him three or four of her young friends, who +listened to what he had to say with an interest that gratified his +feelings. Nothing had been said to Grace of her uncle's prejudice +against dancing; she was, therefore, no little surprised to see the +sudden change in his manner, when she said to a young lady in the +group around him-- + +"Come! you must play some cotillions for us. We're going to have a +dance." + +After going with the young lady to the piano, and opening it for +her, Grace went back to her uncle, whose face she found deeply +clouded. + +"A'n't you well, uncle?" she asked, affectionately. + +"Oh yes, child, I am well enough in body," was replied. + +"But something troubles you, uncle--what is it?" + +By this time a number of couples were on the floor, and at the +moment, a young man came up to Grace, and said-- + +"Shall I have the pleasure of dancing with you this evening?" + +"Not in the first set," replied Grace; "but I will consider myself +engaged for the second, unless you can find a more agreeable +partner." + +"Do you dance, then?" asked Uncle Arthur, gravely, after the young +man had turned away. + +"Dance?" Grace was in doubt whether she had clearly understood him. + +"Yes, dear." + +"Certainly I do, uncle. You don't think there is harm in dancing?" + +"I do, my child. And, I am sure that, after what you said about +reading your Bible and trying to live for heaven, your admission +greatly surprises me. Religion and dancing! How can they have an +affinity?" + +"Good and evil can have no affinity," said Grace, in reply to this +remark. "Evil, I have always understood to be in a purpose to do +wrong. Now, I can dance with a good purpose; and, surely, then, +dancing cannot be evil to me." + +"Dance with a good purpose! How can you do that, my dear?" + +"I have often danced with the sole end of contributing my share to +the general enjoyment of a company." + +"Strange enjoyment!" sighed the old parson. + +"The timing of steps, and the orderly movement of the body in +concert with musical harmonies, often affects the mind with +exquisite delight, uncle. I have enjoyed this over and over again, +and have felt better and happier afterwards." + +"Child! child!" replied the old man; "how it grieves me to hear you +say this." + +"If there is sin in dancing, uncle," said Grace, seriously, "tell me +wherein it lies. Look at the countenances of those now on the floor; +do they express evil or good affection?--here, as I have been +taught, lies the sin." + +"It is a foolish waste of time," returned the old man; "a foolish +waste of time; and it is an evil thing to waste the precious time +that God has given to us." + +"We cannot always work or read. Both mind and body become wearied." + +"Then we have time for meditation." + +"But even thought will grow burdensome at times, and the mind sink +into listlessness and inactivity. Then we need recreation, in order +that we may afterwards both work and think better. Music and +dancing, in which mind and body find an innocent delight, effect +such a recreation. I know it is so in my case; and I know it is so +in the case of others. You do not say that dancing is a thing evil +in itself?" + +"No." This was admitted rather reluctantly. + +"Then if it be made to serve a good end, it is a good thing." + +"But is often made to serve evil," said the minister. + +"Then it is an evil thing," promptly answered Grace; "and so every +good gift of heaven may be made an evil thing to those who use it +for an evil purpose. You know it is said that a spider extracts +poison from the same flower where the bee gets honey. The deadly +nightshade draws life from the same rain and sunshine that nourishes +and matures the wheat, from which our bread is made. It is the +purpose, uncle, that makes a thing evil." + +"Could you pray on going to bed, after an evening spent in dancing?" +asked the old man, confident that he had put a question that would +clearly show his niece her error. To his surprise, Grace answered, +with a beautiful smile on her face-- + +"Oh, yes; and I have so prayed, many and many a time; not failing to +return thanks for the pleasure I had been permitted to enjoy." + +"Thanks for mere carnal pleasure!" + +"All things are good that are filled with good affections," said +Grace. "We are in a natural world, where all pleasure and pain +affect us in the natural degree most sensibly. We must come down, +that we may go up. We must let our natural joy and gladness have +free course, innocently, that they may be changed into a joy that is +higher and spiritual. Is it not so, uncle?" + +Now, the old man had not expected to find such a nice head on so +young a body; nor did he expect to be called upon to answer a +question, which came in a form that he was not prepared either to +negative or affirm. He had put all natural pleasures under the ban, +as flowing from the carnal mind; and, therefore, evil. As to filling +natural pleasures with spiritual life, that was a new position in +theology. He had preached against natural pleasures as evil, and, +therefore, to be abandoned by all who would lead a heavenly life. +Before he could collect his thoughts for an answer satisfactory to +himself, two or three ladies gathered around them, and he discreetly +forebore to make any further remarks on the subject. But he felt, as +may be supposed, very uncomfortable. + +After the first set was danced, one of the young ladies who had been +on the floor, and who had previously been introduced to the old +gentleman by Grace, came, with colour heightened by excitement, and +her beautiful face in a glow of pleasure, and sat down by his side. +Mr. Archer would have received her with becoming gravity, had it +been in his power to, do so; but the smile on her face was so +innocent, and she bent towards him so kindly and affectionately, +that he could not find it in his heart to meet her with even a +silent reproof. This young lady was really charming his ear, when a +gentleman came up to her, and said-- + +"Anna, I want you to dance with me." + +"With pleasure," replied the girl. "You will excuse me for a while, +Mr. Archer," said she, and she was about rising as she spoke, but +the old man placed his hand upon her arm, and gently detained her. + +"You're not going to leave me?" + +"No, not if my company will give you any pleasure," replied the +young girl, with a gentle smile. "Please excuse me." This she +addressed to the person who had asked her to dance. He bowed, and +turned away. + +"I am glad to keep you by my side," said Mr. Archer, with some +seriousness in his manner. + +"And I am glad to stay here," was promptly answered, "if my company +will give you any pleasure. It does me good to contribute to others' +happiness." + +The old man was touched by this reply, for he felt that it was from +the heart. It sounded strangely to his ears from the lips of one who +had just been whirling in the mazy dance. + +"There is no real pleasure in any thing selfish," he remarked. "Yes, +you say truly, it does us good to contribute to the happiness of +others." + +"For this reason," said Anna, "I like dancing as a social +recreation. It is a mutual pleasure. We give and receive enjoyment." + +The old minister's face grew serious. + +"I have been to three or four parties," continued the young girl, +"where dancing was excluded, under some strange idea that it was +wrong; and I must say that so much evil-speaking and censoriousness +it has never been my lot to encounter in any company. The time, +instead of being improved as a season of mental and bodily +recreation, was worse than wasted. I know that I was worse instead +of better on returning from each of these companies, for I +insensibly fell into the prevailing spirit." + +"That was very bad, certainly," remarked Mr. Archer, before whose +mind arose some pictures of social gatherings, in which had +prevailed the very spirit condemned by his young companion. "But I +don't see how you are going to make dancing a sovereign remedy for +the evil." + +"It is not a sovereign remedy," was answered, "but it is a concert +of feeling and action, in which the mind is exhilarated, and in +which a mutual good-will is produced. You cannot dance without being +pleased, to a greater or less extent, with your partners on the +floor. Often and often have I had a prejudice against persons wear +off as we moved together in the dances, and I have afterwards +discovered in them good qualities to which I was before blinded." + +"Uncle," said Grace to the old man, just at this moment, bending to +his ear as she spoke, and taking his hand in hers,--"come! I want to +show you something." + +Grace drew him into the adjoining parlour, where another set was on +the floor. Two children, her younger brother and sister, were in it. + +"Now, just look at Ada and Willy," whispered Grace in his ear, as +she brought him in view of the young dancers. Ada was a lovely +child, and the old uncle's heart had already taken her in. She was a +graceful little dancer, and moved in the figures with the lightness +of a fairy. It was a beautiful sight, and in the face of all the +prejudices which half a century had worn into him, he felt that it +was beautiful. As he looked upon it, he could keep the dimness from +his eyes only by a strong effort. + +"Is there evil in that, uncle?" asked Grace, drawing her arm within +that of the old man's. + +"Is it good?" he replied. + +"Yes; it is good," said Grace, emphatically, as she lifted her eyes +to his. + +Mr. Archer did not gainsay her words. He at least felt that it was +not evil, though he could not admit that it was good. + +Spite of the dancing, which soon ceased to offend the good old man, +he passed a pleasant evening. Perhaps, he enjoyed the Christmas +party as much as any one there. + +Nothing was said, on the next day, by any one, on the subject of +dancing; though Mr. Archer, especially, thought a great deal about +the matter. Some ideas had come into his mind that were new there, +and he was pondering them attentively. On the third day of his +arrival, he had a severe attack of rheumatism, from which he +suffered great pain, besides a confinement to his room for a couple +of weeks. During that time, the untiring devotion and tender +solicitude of Grace touched the old man's heart deeply. When the +pain had sufficiently abated to let his mind attain composure, she +sought to interest him in various ways. Sometimes she would read to +him by the hour; sometimes she would entertain him with cheerful +conversation; and sometimes she would bring in one or two of her +young friends whom he had met at the Christmas party. + +With these, he had more than one discussion, in his sick room, on +the subject of dancing, and the old minister found these gay young +girls rather more than a match for him. During a discussion of this +kind, Grace left the room. In her absence, one of her companions +said to him-- + +"Grace is a good girl." + +A quick light went over the old man's countenance; and he replied, +with evident feeling-- + +"Good? Yes; I look at her, sometimes, and think her almost an +angel." + +"She dances." + +The old man sighed. + +"She is a Christian." + +"I wish there were more such in the world," said he, unhesitatingly. + +"And yet she dances." + +"My dear child," said Mr. Archer, turning with an affectionate smile +towards his young interlocutor, "don't take such an advantage of me +in the argument." + +"Then it is settled," was continued, in triumph, "that if dancing is +not a Christian grace, a maiden may dance and yet be a Christian?" + +"God bless you, and keep you from all the evil of the world," said +the old man, fervently, as he took the young girl's hand and pressed +it between his own. "It may be all right! it may be all right!" + +Grace came back at the moment, and he ceased speaking. + +From that time the venerable minister said no more on the subject, +and it is but fair to believe that when he returned home he had very +serious doubts in regard to the sin of dancing, which had once been +as fairly held as if it had been an article in the Confession of +Faith. + + + + +IS SHE A LADY? + + +"MRS. TUDOR is a perfect lady," said my wife, Mrs. Sunderland, to me +one day, after having received a visit from the individual she +named. + +"She may have the manners of a lady," I replied, "when abroad; but +whether she be a lady at home or not, is more than I can tell. It is +easy to put on the exterior of a lady; but to be a lady is a very +different thing." + +"All that is true enough; but why do you connect such remarks with +the name of Mrs. Tudor? Do you know any thing to the contrary of her +being a lady?--a lady at home, as you say, for instance?" + +"No, I can't say that I do; but, somehow or other, I am a little +inclined to be doubtful of the genuineness of Mrs. Tudor's claims to +being a lady. Once or twice I have thought that I perceived an air +of superciliousness to persons who were considered inferior. This is +a rigid but true test of any one's claims to being either a lady or +a gentleman. No true lady is less careful of the feelings of those +below her than she is of those who are upon an equality." + +"But you only thought you saw this," said Mrs. Sunderland. + +"True, and my thought may be only a thought," I returned, "and +unjust to Mrs. Tudor, who may be as much of a lady at home and under +all circumstances, as she appears to be when abroad." + +"What she is, I have not the least doubt," said my wife. + +I never altogether fancied this Mrs. Tudor, although Mrs. Sunderland +liked her very much. Before we built our new house, Mrs. Tudor did +not know us, notwithstanding the fact that our pews had adjoined for +two or three years. But after that event, Mrs. Tudor found out that +we had an existence, and became uncommonly gracious with my wife. + +Not long after I had spoken out my mind in regard to Mrs. Tudor, +that lady, in company with her husband, paid us a visit one evening, +and after sitting an hour, invited us to come around and take tea +with them on a certain evening in the ensuing week. + +When the time came, as we had accepted the invitation, we went. We +found about a dozen persons assembled, half of whom were entire +strangers to us. Among these I soon perceived that there were two or +three who, in the eyes of Mrs. Tudor, were a little superior to her +other guests. On our entrance, we were introduced to them first, and +with particular formality, our lady hostess pronouncing their names +in a very distinct manner, while her articulation of ours was so low +that they were scarcely, if at all, heard. During the hour that +passed before tea was announced, Mrs. Tudor confined her attentions +almost exclusively to these two or three individuals, who were +evidently persons of more consequence than the rest of us. So +apparent was all this, that most of those who were in the room, +instead of joining in the conversation, sat looking at the more +favoured guests. + +"They must be persons of some importance," I could not help saying +to my wife in an undertone, in which her quick ear detected +something of sarcasm. + +"For mercy's sake, Mr. Sunderland!" she replied, in a voice that +only reached my own ears, "don't make remarks upon any of the +company." + +If she had said, "It is not gentlemanly to do so," she could not +have conveyed what she wished to utter more distinctly than she did. + +I felt the force of her reproof, but could not resist the +inclination I felt to reply. + +"We have so good an example of what is polite and genteel, that it +is not to be wondered if we profit a little." + +"Mr. Sunderland! Why, will you!" My wife seemed distressed. + +I said no more on the subject, content with having let her know that +I was noticing the conduct of her perfect lady. I believe, if I +could have seen her thoughts, that among them I would have detected +this one among the rest; that it was not exactly fair and +gentlemanly in me to remind her so promptly of the error she had +probably committed in her estimate of Mrs. Tudor's character. + +Fully absorbed as she was in showing attentions to her more favoured +guests, Mrs. Tudor did not perceive the cold, uncomfortable, +unsocial feeling that had crept over the rest of her company. + +Tea was at last announced. I felt relieved at this, and so, I +perceived, did most of those around me. At the tea-table I expected +to find Mrs. Tudor more general in her attentions. But no. These +favoured ones were served first, and "Mrs.--, will you have this?" +and "Mrs.--, will you have that?" were almost exclusively confined +to three persons at the table. Mr. Tudor, I remarked, noticed this, +for he exerted himself in order to make all the rest feel at ease, +which he succeeded in doing to some extent. + +Waiting upon the table was a female domestic, a young girl of good +manners and appearance. To her Mrs. Tudor uniformly spoke in a way +that must have been felt as peculiarly disagreeable. The blandest +smile; and the most winning expression of voice, would instantly +change, when Lucy was addressed, to a cold, supercilious look, and +an undertone of command. Several times I saw the blood mount to the +girl's forehead, as a word or tone more marked and offensive than +usual would be given so loudly as to be perceived by all. Once or +twice, at such times, I could not resist a glance at Mrs. +Sunderland, which was generally met with a slight, rebuking +contraction of her brow. + +Through the efforts of Mr. Tudor, who certainly did his part well, +the tea-table party was a good deal more social than had been the +individuals composing it while in the parlour. The favoured guests, +notwithstanding the incense offered them by our hostess, appeared in +no way to esteem themselves as better than the rest, and, as soon as +opportunity was afforded them, tried to be at home with every one. +Once more in the parlours, and arranged there by a kind of social +crystallization, I perceived that Mrs. Tudor was sitting between two +of the ladies who were considered by her worthy of the most marked +attention. There she sat during nearly the whole of the evening, +except when refreshments were introduced, when she accompanied Lucy +round the room, occasionally speaking to her in a tone of offensive +command or cutting rebuke. + +For one, I was glad when the time came to go home, and I rather +think that all present were as much relieved, in getting away, as I +was. + +"What is your opinion now?" said I, triumphantly, to Mrs. +Sunderland, the moment we were in the street. + +"My opinion," she replied, a little sharply, "is, that you did not +act, in several instances, this evening, like a gentleman!" + +"I did not!" I spoke with affected surprise only; for I thought I +knew what it was she meant. + +"No, I am sorry to say that you did not. Nothing could have been +more improper than the notice you took of what was passing. A true +gentlemanly spirit would have led you to look away from, rather than +at the weakness of our hostess." + +"Look away from it, Mrs. Sunderland! How could I do that, pray? It +was before my eyes all the time." + +"You ought to have shut your eyes, then." + +"Nonsense." + +"Very far from it, Mr. Sunderland! You are ready enough to see the +faults of other people!"--(in this, I must confess, my wife did not +err very much)--"but quite willing to shut your eyes to your own. +Now, I think you acted just as bad as Mrs. Tudor; and, in fact, +worse." + +"Worse! You are complimentary, Mrs. Sunderland." + +"I can't help it if I am. Mrs. Tudor was led by her weakness to +conduct herself in an unlady-like manner; but you, with her example +before your eyes, and in a mood to reflect, permitted yourself to +remark upon her conduct in a way calculated to give pain." + +"In the name of wonder, what are you driving at, Mrs. Sunderland? No +one but you heard any remark I made." + +"I wish I could think so." + +"Who, besides yourself, heard what I said?" + +"Mr. Tudor." + +"Impossible!" + +"He was sitting very near us when you so far forgot yourself as to +notice, verbally, what was passing, and I am well satisfied, either +heard distinctly what was said, or enough to enable him to +understand the nature of all you said." + +"You are surely mistaken," said I, feeling a good deal mortified, +and perceiving much more clearly than I did before the nature of my +offence against good manners and propriety of conduct. + +"I wish I were. But I fear I am not. I know that Mr. Tudor looked +around toward you suddenly, and I noticed that he was much more +particular afterward in his attentions to the rest of the company. +At table, you may have yourself remarked this." + +"Yes, I noticed it." + +"And yet, even at the table, when he was doing his best, you again +hurt his feelings." + +"Me!" + +"Yes, you. When Mrs. Tudor spoke harshly to Lucy, or did something +or other that you thought out of the way, you must look your sarcasm +at me, notwithstanding the eyes of her husband were upon you." + +"But he didn't see me, then." + +"Yes, but he did. I saw him looking directly at you." + +"Oh, no! it cannot be." I was unwilling to believe this. + +"I wish it were not so for my husband's sake," returned Mrs. +Sunderland. "But the evidence of my senses I generally find it +necessary to credit." + +I must own that I felt considerably cut up, or cut down, whichever +is the most mortifying state to be in. To look and whisper my +censure in company, I had thought no great harm; but now that I had +found I had been discovered in the act, I had a mortifying sense of +its impropriety. + +"Well, anyhow," said I, rallying myself, and speaking with some +lightness of tone, "it is clear that Mrs. Tudor is no lady, for all +you thought her such a pattern-card of gentility." + +"And I have not the least doubt," retorted my wife, "that it is +equally clear to Mr. Tudor that you are no gentleman. So, on that +score, the account stands fairly balanced between the two families." + +This was a pretty hard hit; and I felt a little "riled up," as the +Yankees say, but I concluded that the uttering of a few sharp +sayings to my wife, under the circumstances, would not prove my +claim to being a gentleman, especially against the facts of the +case; so I cooled down, and walked home rather silently, and in not +the best humour with myself. + +On the next morning, I took up a little book from my wife's bureau, +and sat down to look over it while waiting for the breakfast bell. +It was a book of aphorisms, and I opened at once to a page where a +leaf was turned down. A slight dot with a pencil directed my eyes to +a particular line, which read-- + +"_He who lives in a glass house shouldn't throw stones_." + +I am not sure that Mrs. Sunderland turned down that leaf in the +book, and marked the sentiment for my especial benefit; though I +strongly suspected her. At any rate, I deemed it best not to ask the +question. + + + + +GOING INTO MOURNING. + + +THE weeping mother bent over the beautiful form of innocent +childhood--beautiful still, though its animating spirit had +fled--and kissed the pale cheek of her dear departed one. When she +lifted her head, a tear glistened on the cold brow of the babe. Then +the father looked his last look, and, with an effort, controlled the +emotion that wellnigh mastered him. The sisters came next, with +audible sobs, and cheeks suffused with tears. A moment or two they +gazed upon the expressionless face of their dear little playfellow, +and then the coffin lid was shut down, while each one present +experienced a momentary feeling of suffocation. + +As the funeral procession came out of the door, and the family +passed slowly across the pavement to the carriages, a few gossiping +neighbours--such as, with no particular acquaintance with the +principal members of a household, know all about the internal +management of every dwelling in the square--assembled close by, and +thus discoursed of the events connected with the burying. + +"Poor Mrs. Condy," said one, "how can she bear the loss of that +sweet little fellow!" + +"Other people have lost children as well as she," remarked a +sour-looking dame. "Rich people, thank heaven! have to feel as well +as we poor folks." + +No one seemed disposed to reply to this; and there was a momentary +silence. + +"They've got up mourning mighty quick," said a third speaker. +"Little Willie only died yesterday morning." + +"It's most all borrowed, I suppose," responded a fourth. + +"Hardly," said the other. + +"Yes, but I know that it is, though," added the individual who made +the allegation of borrowing; "because, you see, Lucy, the +chambermaid, told me last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her to +borrow her sister's black bombazine, and that the girls were all +hard enough put to it to know where to get something decent to +attend the funeral in." + +"No doubt, they thought more about mourning dresses, than they did +about the dead child," remarked the cynic of the group. + +"It's a shame, Mrs. Grime, for you to talk in that way about any +one," replied the woman who had first spoken. + +"It's the truth, Mrs. Myers," retorted Mrs. Grime. "By their works +ye shall know them. You needn't tell me about people being so +dreadful sorry at the loss of friends when they can make such a +to-do about getting black to wear. These bombazine dresses and long +black veils are truly enough called mourning--they are an excellent +counterfeit, and deceive one half of the world. Ah, me! If all the +money that was spent buying in mourning was given to the poor, there +would be less misery in the world by a great deal." + +And while the little group, attracted by the solemn pageant, thus +exercised the privilege of independent thought and free discussion, +carriage after carriage was filled and moved off, and soon the whole +passed out of sight. + +It was near the hour of twilight when the afflicted family returned, +and after partaking of supper, sparingly, and in silence, the +different members retired to their chambers, and at an early hour +sought relief to their troubled thoughts in sleep. + +On the next morning, during the breakfast hour, Mrs. Condy broke the +oppressive silence by asking of her husband the sum of fifty +dollars. + +"What for, Sarah?" said Mr. Condy, looking into her face with an +expression of grave inquiry. + +"It's the middle of the week now, you know, and therefore no time is +to be lost in getting mourning. At any rate, it will be as much as a +bargain to get dresses made by Sunday. Jane and Mary will have to go +out this morning and buy the goods." + +Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed lost in deep and +somewhat painful thought. At length, he said, looking his wife +steadily in the face, but with a kind expression on his +countenance-- + +"Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing show of mourning +cannot make us any the more sorry for the loss of our dear little +one," and his voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word, +and the moisture dimmed his eyes. + +"Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to put +on mourning," said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea of +non-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented to +her mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrow +awakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest. "How can you +think of such a thing?" + +"Why, father, it would never do in the world," added the eldest +daughter, Jane. "I should feel condemned as long as I lived, if I +were to neglect so binding a duty." + +"And what would people say?" asked Mary, whose simple mind perceived +at once the strongest motive that operated in favour of the mourning +garments. + +"I don't see, Mary," replied Mr. Condy, "that other people have any +thing at all to do in this matter. We know our grief to be real, and +need no artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black garments +cannot add to our sorrow." + +But Mrs. Condy shook her head, and the daughters shook their heads, +and the end of the matter was, Mr. Condy's purse-strings were +loosened, and the required amount of money handed over. + +After thinking a good deal about the matter, Mary suggested, about +an hour after breakfast, that it would not look well for her and +Jane to be seen shopping, and Willie only buried the day before; and +it was agreed to send for Ellen Maynard, who always sewed in the +family when there was much to do, and get her to make the purchases. +This determined, Lucy was despatched for Ellen. + +The reader will transfer his mental vision to a small but neat and +comfortable room in another part of the town. The inmates are two. +One, with a pale, thin face, and large bright eyes, reclines upon a +bed. The other is seated by a window, sewing. + +"I think I will try to sit up a little, Ellen," said the former, +raising herself up with an effort. + +"I wouldn't, if I were you, Margaret," replied the other, dropping +her work and coming to the bedside. "You had better keep still, or +that distressing cough may come back again." + +"Indeed, sister," returned the invalid, "I feel so restless that it +is almost impossible to lie here. Let me sit up a little while, and +I am sure I shall feel better." + +Ellen did not oppose her further, but assisted her to a large +rocking-chair, and, after placing a pillow at her back, resumed her +work. + +"I can't help thinking of Mrs. Condy's little Willie," said Ellen, +after a pause. "Dear little fellow! How much they must all feel his +loss." + +"He is better off, though," remarked the sister; but even that idea +could not keep her eyes from glistening. The thought of death always +referred itself to her own near approach to the thick shadows and +the dark valley. + +"Yes, he is with the angels," was the brief response of Ellen. + +Just at that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Condy's chambermaid +entered. + +"Good morning, Lucy, how do you do?" said Ellen, rising. "How is +Mrs. Condy and all the family?" + +"They are very well, Miss Ellen," replied Lucy. "Mrs. Condy wants +you to come there this morning and go and buy the mourning for the +family. And then they want you to come and sew all this week, and +part of next, too." + +Ellen glanced at her sister, involuntarily, and then said-- + +"I am afraid, Lucy, that I can't go. Margaret is very poorly, and I +don't see how I can possibly leave her." + +"O yes, you can go, Ellen," said Margaret. "You can fix me what I +want, and come home every night. I'll do well enough." + +Ellen paused a few moments, and then turning to Lucy, said-- + +"Tell Mrs. Condy that I will come round in the course of half an +hour." + +Lucy went away, and Ellen, after sitting irresolute for some +minutes, said-- + +"I don't think, sister, that I can do any thing more for Mrs. Condy +than her shopping. I wouldn't like to leave you alone. You know how +bad your cough is sometimes." + +"I'll do well enough through the day, Ellen," replied Margaret, +though her feeble voice and languid manner told too plainly that she +could not do very well at any time. "You know that our rent will be +due in two weeks, and that you haven't yet got enough to pay it." + +"That is very true," said Ellen, somewhat sadly. "Anyhow, I'll go to +Mrs. Condy's, and will think about the matter." + +After dressing herself, Ellen insisted that her sister should lie +down. She then placed a small table close to the bed, upon which was +set a few articles of food, and a vial of cough medicine. After +charging Margaret to keep very quiet, and to try to sleep, she +turned upon her a look of deep and yearning affection, and then +hurried away. + +The sight of Ellen, and the necessary allusion to the recent +afflicting loss, caused the tears of the mother and sisters to flow +afresh. But these were soon dried up, and so much were the minds of +each interested in the idea of the mourning dresses, and in the +necessary directions to be given, that few traces of the real +affliction which had wrung their hearts remained, for the time, +perceptible. The orders received by Ellen were promptly filled at +the store where the family usually purchased their dry-goods, and +the various articles sent home. The bundles arrived about the same +time that Ellen returned. Then came a careful examination of the +shades of colour and quality of the goods. These proving +satisfactory, Jane said-- + +"And now, Ellen, mother's dress, and Mary's, and mine must be done +this week. We'll all help you. Mary and I can make the skirts and +bind cord for you, and do a good deal on the dresses. You can get +them done, easily enough?" + +"Indeed, Miss Jane," replied Ellen, and her voice was not steady, "I +hardly know what to say. Sister is worse than she has ever been; and +I don't see how I can leave her alone. She coughs terribly; and is +so weak, that she can only sit up a little while. She has failed +very fast within a week." + +"But you know this is a case particularly pressing," said Mrs. +Condy. "There seems to be no help for it. There is no one we can get +but you, now; and you know we give you all our sewing, and depend on +you. Lucy says that Margaret is willing to have you come, and says +that she can get on very well." + +Ellen paused a moment or two, and then replied, with an expression +of sadness in her voice--"I will make the dresses for you, Mrs. +Condy, but you must all help me as much as you can, so that I can +get home every evening. It won't do to let Margaret be alone all +night, for her cough is much worse in the evening, and before day in +the morning." + +Neither Mrs. Condy nor her daughters replied to this. Mentally, they +deemed it impossible for Ellen to go home at night. But they did not +wish to say so. It was Wednesday, and all the afternoon was consumed +in cutting, fitting, and basting the dresses. Night came, and Ellen, +after tea, prepared to go home. Some slight objection was made; but +she was resolute. It was some time after dark when she came in sight +of her chamber window. It showed that there was no light within. +Instantly she sprang forward, and soon bounded up the stairs and +into the room. + +"Margaret!--How are you, Margaret?" she said, pressing up to the +bedside, and putting her hand upon the forehead of her sister. It +was cold and clammy. A violent fit of coughing prevented a reply. A +light was obtained in a few minutes, and showed the countenance of +Margaret slightly distorted from difficult breathing, and her +forehead perceptibly corrugated. + +"You are worse, sister!" exclaimed Ellen, kissing her damp forehead. + +"No, not much worse. My cough is only a little troublesome," was the +quiet reply. + +"You have had no supper yet, of course," said Ellen. "A cup of hot +tea will do you good." + +This was soon prepared, and Margaret ate with a keen appetite. +After tea, she was much better. The cold perspiration ceased, and +her skin became dry and warm. A brief conversation passed between +the sisters, when Margaret fell off into a pleasant slumber. On the +next morning, with much reluctance and many misgivings as to whether +it were right to leave her sister alone, Ellen went to Mrs. Condy's. +Before going, however, she asked the kind neighbour who lived below, +to look in occasionally, and to see that Margaret had a good cup of +tea for dinner. This was promised, and she felt lighter at heart. + +Ellen worked hard through that day; but when night came, with all +the help she had received, the first dress was not finished. Unless +one dress were finished each day, the three could not be done by +Sunday; and this not being the case on the first day, how could she +go home that night? for if she worked a few hours longer, the +garment would be ready for the wearer. + +"I must run home a little while," said she, mentally, "and then come +back again. But how can I leave Margaret all night? She may die!" +The thought caused her to shudder. + +At length she said to Mrs. Condy-- + +"I can't leave sister all night, madam. But I can take your dress +home with me, and by sitting up late, I can easily finish it. You +will have no objection to my doing this, I hope?" + +Mrs. Condy paused a moment, for she did feel an objection to this +being done; but humanity prevailed, and she consented. This relieved +Ellen's mind very greatly, and she bundled up the dress, and hurried +away with it. Margaret appeared more feeble than she was in the +morning; and her cough was very troublesome. It was nearly twelve +o'clock when the last stitch was taken in Mrs. Condy's dress. And +then Ellen retired to her bed. But it was a long time before she +could sleep. The nervous excitement, induced by protracted labour +and great anxiety of mind, drove slumber from her eyelids for many +hours. Towards morning she fell into a troubled sleep, and awoke at +daylight unrefreshed. + +This day was Friday, and Jane's dress came next in turn. Ellen +applied herself with even greater assiduity than she had used on the +preceding day; but, as Jane's dress required more trimming, and less +assistance was given her on it, the progress she made towards its +completion was in no way promising. After dinner her head began to +ache, and continued its throbbing, almost blinding pain, until the +evening twilight began to fall, and the darkness compelled her to +suspend her work. + +"Why, Ellen, Jane's dress isn't nigh done," said Mary, in tones of +surprise, on coming into the room, at the moment Ellen laid the +garment aside. + +"No, but I'll finish it to-night," replied Ellen. + +"Why, it'll take you pretty much all night to finish this," she +said, lifting and examining her sister's dress. "How in the world +did you get so behindhand, Ellen?" + +"This is a harder dress to make than your mother's," replied Ellen; +"and besides having had less help on it, my head has ached very +badly all the afternoon." + +Without seeming to notice the last reason given, Mary said-- + +"Well, if you can possibly get it done to-night, Ellen, you must do +so. It would never answer in the world not to have all the dresses +done by to-morrow night." + +"I will have it done," was the brief reply, made in a low tone. + +Jane's dress was taken home that night, unfinished by full six or +seven hours' work. As Ellen had feared, she found Margaret suffering +much from her cough. After preparing some food for her sister, whose +appetite still remained good, she drank a cup of tea, and then sat +down to work upon the mourning garment. Towards midnight, Margaret, +who had fallen asleep early in the evening, began to grow restless, +and to moan as if in pain. Every now and then, Ellen would pause in +her work and look towards the bed, with an anxious countenance; and +once or twice she got up, and stood over her sister; but she did not +awake. It was three o'clock when the last stitch was taken, and then +Margaret's cough had awakened her, and she seemed to suffer so much +from that and from difficult breathing, that Ellen, even after lying +down, did not go to sleep for an hour. It was long after sunrise +when she awoke. + +"Must you go to-day, too?" inquired Margaret, looking into her +sister's face anxiously, on seeing her, after the hastily prepared +breakfast had been eaten, take up her bonnet and shawl. + +"Yes, Margaret, I must go to-day. There is one more dress to be +made, and that must be done. But after to-day, I won't go out +anywhere again until you are better." + +"I don't think I shall ever be better again, Ellen," said the sick +girl. "I am getting so weak; and I feel just as if I shouldn't stay +here but a little while. You don't know how strange I feel +sometimes. Oh, I wish you didn't have to go out to-day!" And she +looked so earnestly into the face of her sister, that the tears +sprung into Ellen's eyes. + +"If I can persuade them to put this last dress off until next week, +and then get some one else to make it, I will," said the sister: +"but if I can't, Margaret, try and keep up your spirits. I'll ask +Mrs. Ryland, down-stairs, to come and sit with you a little while at +a time through the day; and so if I can't; get off, you won't be +altogether without company." + +"I wish you would, sister, for I feel so lonesome sometimes," +replied Margaret, mournfully. + +Mrs. Ryland consented, for she was a kind-hearted woman, and liked +the sisters, and Ellen hurried away to Mrs. Condy's. + +"You are very late this morning, ain't you?" said Mary Condy, as +Ellen entered with Jane's finished dress. + +"I am a little late, Miss Mary, but I sat up until three o'clock +this morning, and overslept myself in consequence." + +"Well, you'll finish my dress to-day, of course?" + +"Really, Miss Mary, I hardly know what to say about it. Sister is so +very poorly, that I am almost afraid to leave her alone. Can't you +in any way put yours off until next week? I have been up nearly all +night for two nights, and feel very unwell this morning." And +certainly her pale cheeks, sunken eyes, and haggard countenance +fully confirmed her statement. + +"It will be impossible, Ellen," was Mary's prompt and positive +response. "I must go to church to-morrow, and cannot, of course, go +out, without my black dress." + +With a sigh, Ellen sat down and resumed her needle. After a while +she said-- + +"Miss Mary, I cannot finish your dress, unless you and your sister +help me a good deal." + +"Oh, we'll do that, of course," replied Mary, getting up and leaving +the room. + +It was nearly eleven o'clock before Mary thought of helping Ellen +any, and then two or three young ladies came in to pay a visit of +condolence, and prevented her. Tears were shed at first; and then +gradually a more cheerful tone of feeling succeeded, and so much +interested were the young ladies in each other's company, that the +moments passed rapidly away, and advanced the time near on to the +dinner hour. It was full three o'clock before Mary and Jane sat +themselves down to help Ellen. The afternoon seemed almost to fly +away, and when it was nightfall, the dress was not half finished. + +"Will it be possible to get it done to-night?" asked Mrs. Condy. + +"It will be hard work, madam," said Ellen, whose heart was with her +sister. + +"Oh, it can be finished," said Mary, "if we all work hard for two or +three hours. The fact is, it must be done. I wouldn't miss having it +for the world." + +With a sigh, Ellen turned again to her work; though feeble nature +was wellnigh sinking under the task forced upon her. It was past +eleven o'clock when the dress was finished, and Ellen prepared to go +home to her sister. + +"But you are not going home to-night?" said Mr. Condy, who was now +present. + +"O yes, sir. I haven't seen sister since morning, and she's very +ill." + +"What is the matter with your sister?" asked Mr. Condy, in a kind +tone. + +"I'm afraid she's got the consump--" It vas the first time Ellen had +attempted to utter the word, and the sound, even though the whole of +it remained unspoken, broke down her feelings, and she burst into +tears. + +Instinctively, Mr. Condy reached for his hat and cane, and as he saw +Ellen recover, by a strong effort, her self-possession, he said-- + +"It is too late for you to go home alone, Ellen, and as we cannot +ask you, under the circumstances, to stay all night, I will go with +you." + +Ellen looked her gratitude, for she was really afraid to go into the +street alone at that late hour. As they walked along, Mr. Condy, by +many questions, ascertained that Ellen had been almost compelled to +work day and night to make up mourning garments for his family, and +to absent herself from her sick sister, while she needed her most +careful attention. Arrived at her humble dwelling, his benevolent +feelings prompted him to ascertain truly the condition of Margaret, +for his heart misgave him that her end was very nigh. + +On entering the chamber, they found Mrs. Ryland, the neighbour who +lived below, supporting Margaret in the bed, who was gasping for +breath as if every moment in fear of suffocation. Ellen sprung +forward with a sudden exclamation, and, taking Mrs. Ryland's place, +let the head of her sister fall gently upon her bosom. Mr. Condy +looked on for a moment, and then hastily retired. As soon as he +reached home, he despatched a servant for the family physician, with +a special request to have him visit Ellen's sister immediately. He +then went into his wife's chamber, where the daughters, with their +mother, were engaged in looking over their new morning apparel. + +"I'm afraid," said he, "that you have unintentionally been guilty of +a great wrong." + +"How?" asked Mrs. Condy, looking up with sudden surprise. + +"In keeping Ellen here so late from her sister, who is, I fear, at +this moment dying." + +"Is it possible!" exclaimed the mother and daughters with looks of +alarm. + +"It is, I fear, too true. But now, all that can be done is to try +and make some return. I want you, Mary, and your mother, to put on +your bonnets and shawls and go with me. Something may yet be done +for poor Margaret. I have already sent for the doctor." + +On the instant Mrs. Condy and Mary prepared themselves, and the +former put into a small basket some sugar and a bottle of wine, and +handed it to her husband, who accompanied them, at that late hour, +to the dwelling of the two sisters. On entering the chamber, they +found no one present but Ellen and Margaret. The latter still +reclined with her head on her sister's bosom, and seemed to have +fallen into a gentle slumber, so quiet did she lay. Ellen looked up +on the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Condy, with Mary; and they saw that +her eyes were filled with tears, and that two large drops stood upon +her cheeks. She made a motion for them to be seated, but did not +rise from her place on the bed, nor stir by the least movement of +her body the still sleeper who leaned upon her breast. For nearly +fifteen minutes, the most profound silence reigned throughout the +chamber. The visitors understood the whole scene, and almost held +their breaths, lest even the respiration, that to them seemed +audible, should disturb the repose of the invalid. At the end of +this time the physician entered, and broke the oppressive stillness. +But neither his voice nor his step, nor the answers and explanations +which necessarily took place, restored Margaret to apparent +consciousness. After feeling her pulse for some time, he said-- + +"It will not be necessary to disturb her while she sleeps; but if +she becomes restless, a little wine may be given. In the morning I +will see her early," and he made a movement to go. + +"Doctor," said Ellen, looking him eagerly in the face, "tell me +truly--is she not dying?" + +For a moment the physician looked upon the earnest, tearful girl, +and read in her countenance that hope and fear held there a painful +struggle. + +"While there is life, there is hope," he replied briefly. + +"Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it," she urged appealingly. +"If my sister is going to die, I wish to know it." + +"I have seen many recover who appeared nearer to death than she is," +he replied, evasively. "As I have just said, where there is life, +there is hope." + +Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at the answer, and the +doctor went down-stairs, accompanied by Mr. Condy. The two remained +some minutes in conversation below, and when the latter returned he +found his wife and daughter standing by the bedside, and Margaret +exhibiting many signs of restlessness. She kept rolling her head +upon the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily. In a few +minutes she began to moan and mutter incoherently. After a little +while her eyes flew suddenly open, and she pronounced the name of +Ellen quickly. + +"I am here, Margaret," replied the sister, bending over her. + +"Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long?" she said, looking up +into her face half reproachfully, and seeming not to observe the +presence of others. "I was so lonesome all day; and then at night I +waited and waited, and you didn't come home! You won't go away any +more--will you, Ellen?" + +"No--no, sister, I won't leave you again," said Ellen, soothingly, +her tears starting afresh. + +The words of Margaret smote upon the heart of Mary, whose great +eagerness to get the mourning dress done, so that she could go out +on Sunday, had been the cause of Ellen's long detention from her +sick sister. She hastily turned away from the bed, and seated +herself by the window, As she sat there, the image of her +baby-brother came up vividly before her mind, and with it the +feeling of desolation which the loss of a dear one always occasions. +And with this painful emotion of grief, there arose in her mind a +distinct consciousness that, since her thoughts had become +interested in the getting and making up of her mourning dress, she +had felt but little of the keen sorrow that had at first overwhelmed +her, and that now came back upon her mind like a flood. As she sat +thus in silent communion with herself, she was enabled to perceive +that, in her own mind, there had been much less of a desire to +commemorate the death of her brother, in putting on mourning, than +to appear before others to be deeply affected with grief. She saw +that the black garments were not to remind herself of the dear +departed one, but to show to others that the babe was still +remembered and still mourned. In her present state of keen +perception of interior and true motives, she felt deeply humbled, +and inwardly resolved that, on the morrow, she would not go out for +the too vain purpose of displaying her mourning apparel. Just as +this resolution became fixed in her mind, a sudden movement at the +bedside arrested her attention, and she again joined the group +there. + +Her heart throbbed with a sudden and quicker pulsation, as her eye +fell upon the face of Margaret. A great change had passed upon it; +death had placed his sign there, and no eye could misunderstand its +import. Rapidly now did the work of dissolution go on, and just as +the day dawned, Margaret sank quietly away into that deep sleep that +knows no earthly waking. + +After rendering all such offices as were required, Mrs. Condy and +Mary went home, the latter promising Ellen that she would return and +remain with her through the day. At the breakfast table, Mr. Condy +so directed the conversation as to give the solemn event they had +been called to witness its true impression upon the minds of his +family. Before the meal closed, it was resolved that Jane and Mary +should go to the humble dwelling of Ellen, and remain with her +through the day; and that after the funeral, the expense of which +Mr. Condy said he would bear, Ellen should be offered a permanent +home. + +The funeral took place on Monday, and was attended by Mr. Condy's +family. On the next day Mrs. Condy called on Ellen, and invited her +to come home with her, and to remain there. The offer was thankfully +accepted. + +During the day, and while Ellen, assisted by Jane and Mary, was at +work on black dresses for the younger children, Mr. and Mrs. Condy +came into the room: the latter had a piece of bombazine in her hand. + +"Here is a dress for you, Ellen," she said, handing her the piece of +bombazine. + +Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of surprise; her face +flushed an instant, and then grew pale. + +"You will want a black dress, Ellen," resumed Mrs. Condy, "and I +have bought you one." + +"I do not wish to put on black," said she, with a slightly +embarrassed look and an effort to smile, while her voice trembled +and was hardly audible. + +"And why not, Ellen?" urged Mrs. Condy. + +"I never liked black," she replied evasively. "And, anyhow, it would +do no good," she added somewhat mournfully, as if the former reason +struck her on the instant as being an insufficient one. + +"No, child, it wouldn't do any good," said Mr. Condy, tenderly and +with emotion. "And if you don't care about having it, don't take +it." + +Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and Ellen again bent +silently over her work. The hearts of all present were touched by +her simple and true remark, "that it would do no good," and each one +respected her the more, that she shunned all exterior manifestation +of the real sorrow that they knew oppressed her spirits. And never +did they array themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought of +Ellen's unobtrusive grief did not come up and chide them. + + + + +IF THAT WERE MY CHILD! + + +"AH, good evening, Mr. Pelby! Good evening, Mr. Manly! I am glad to +see you! Mrs. Little and I were just saying that we wished some +friends would step in." + +"Well, how do you do this evening, Mrs. Little?" said Mr. Pelby, +after they were all seated. "You look remarkably well. And how is +your little family?" + +"We are all bright and hearty," Mrs. Little replied, smiling. +"Little Tommy has just gone off to bed. If you had come in a few +minutes sooner, you would have seen the dear little fellow. He's as +lively and playful as a cricket." + +"How old is he now?" asked Mr. Manly. + +"He will be two years and six months old the twenty-third of next +month." + +"Just the age of my Edward. How much I should like to see him!" + +"I don't think he has gone to sleep yet," said the fond mother of an +only child, rising and going off to her chamber. + +"You bachelors don't sympathize much with us fathers of families," +said Mr. Little, laughing, to Mr. Pelby. + +"How should we?" + +"True enough! But then you can envy us; and no doubt do." + +"It's well enough for you to think so, Little. But, after all, I +expect we are the better off." + +"Don't flatter yourself in any such way, Mr. Pelby. I've been"-- + +"Here's the darling!" exclaimed Mrs. Little, bounding gayly in the +room at the moment, with Tommy, who was laughing and tossing his +arms about in delight at being taken up from his bed, into which he +had gone reluctantly. + +"Come to pa, Tommy," said Mr. Little, reaching out his hands. "Now +ain't that a fine little fellow?" he continued, looking from face to +face of his two friends, and showing off Tommy to the best possible +advantage that his night-gown would permit. And he was a sweet +child; with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and clustering golden +ringlets. + +"Indeed he is a lovely child," Mr. Manly said earnestly. + +"A very fine child," Mr. Pelby remarked, mechanically. + +"We'll match him with the town!" broke in Mrs. Little, unable to +keep down the upswelling, delighted affection of her heart. + +By this time, Tommy's bewildered senses were restored, and he began +to look about him with lively interest. His keen eyes soon detected +Mr. Pelby's bright gold chain and swivel, and well knowing that it +betokened a watch, he slid quickly down from his father's lap, and +stood beside the knee of the nice bachelor visitor. + +"He's not afraid of strangers," said Mrs. Little, her eyes sparkling +with pleasure, as they followed every movement of her child. + +"Tee watch," said Tommy. + +"It'll bite," said Mr. Pelby. + +"Tee watch!" reiterated the child, grasping the chain. + +With not the best grace in the world, Mr. Pelby drew out his +beautiful gold lever, and submitted it to the rude grasp, as he +thought, of Tommy. + +"Oh, ma! ma! Tee watch! tee watch!" cried the child, almost wild +with delight--at the same time advancing towards her as far as the +chain would permit, and then tugging at it as hard as he could, to +the no small discomfort of the visitor, who, seeing no movement of +relief on the part of either parent, was forced to slip the chain +over his head, and trust Tommy to carry his favourite time-keeper to +his mother. + +"Tommy'll be a watch-maker, I expect. Nothing pleases him so much as +a watch," remarked the father. + +Mr. Pelby did not reply. He dared not, for he felt that, were he to +trust himself to speak, he should betray feelings that politeness +required him to conceal. + +"There!" suddenly exclaimed the mother, catching eagerly at the +watch, which Tommy had dropped, and recovering it just in time to +save it from injury. + +"Gim me! gim me! gim me!" cried Tommy, seizing her hands, and +endeavouring to get possession again of the valuable timepiece, +which had escaped so narrowly. + +"There, now," said Mrs. Little, yielding to the child's eager +importunity, and permitting him again to take possession of the +watch. "But you must hold it tighter." + +Mr. Pelby was on nettles; but he dared not interfere. + +"Open it," said Tommy, endeavouring to loose the hinge of the case +with his tiny thumb-nail. + +"Oh, no; you mustn't open it, Tommy." + +"Open it!" resumed Tommy, in a higher and more positive tone. + +"I can't open it," said the mother, pretending to make an earnest +effort to loose the case. + +"_O-pen--it!_" screamed the child, in a loud angry tone. + +"Here, take it to Mr. Pelby, he will open it for you." And the watch +was again intrusted to Tommy's care, who bore it, and, as fortune +would have it, safely too, to its owner. + +Of course, Mr. Pelby could do no better, and so he displayed the +jewels and internal arrangement of his skeleton lever to the curious +gaze of the child. At first, Tommy was well pleased to look alone: +but soon the ends of his fingers itched to touch, and touch he did, +quite promptly; and, of course, Mr. Pelby very naturally drew back +the hand that held the watch; and just as naturally did Tommy +suddenly extend his and grasp the receding prize. With some +difficulty, Mr. Pelby succeeded in disengaging the fingers of the +child, and then hastily closing the watch, he slipped it into his +pocket. + +"There, it's gone!" said he. + +"Tee de watch!" replied Tommy. + +"It's gone clear off." + +"Tee de watch!" said Tommy more emphatically. + +"Here, come see mine," said the father. + +"No," replied the child, angrily. + +Mr. Pelby, to quiet Tommy, now took him upon his lap, and called his +attention to a large cameo breast-pin. This pleased him at once, and +he amused himself with pulling at it, and sadly rumpling the +visitor's snow-white bosom. Next he began to dive into his pockets, +revealing pen-knife, tooth-pick, etc. etc. This was worse than to +let him have the watch; and so, as a lesser evil, the gold lever was +again drawn from its hiding-place. The little fellow was once more +wild with delight. + +But Pelby was so evidently annoyed, that Mr. Little could not help +observing it; and he at length said to his wife-- + +"Hadn't you better take Tommy up-stairs, my dear? He is too +troublesome." + +Mr. Pelby had it on his tongue's end to say, "Oh, no, he don't +trouble me at all!" But he was afraid--not to tell a falsehood--but +that the child would be suffered to remain; so he said nothing. + +"Come, Tommy," said Mrs. Little, holding out her hands. + +"No!" replied the child emphatically. + +"Come." + +"No!" still louder and more emphatic. + +"Yes, come, dear." + +"No, I won't!" + +"Yes, but you must!" Mrs. Little said, taking hold of him. + +At this, Tommy clung around the neck of Mr. Pelby, struggling and +kicking with all his might against the effort of his mother to +disengage him; who finally succeeded, and bore him, screaming at the +top of his voice, from the room. + +"If that were my child," said Mr. Pelby, after they had left the +house, "I'd half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him! I +never saw such an ill-behaved, graceless little rascal in my life!" + +"Children are children, Mr. Pelby," quietly remarked his auditor, +Mr. Manly, who had half a dozen "little responsibilities" himself. + +"Hard bargains at the best, I know. But then I have seen +good-behaved children; and, if parents would only take proper pains +with them, all might be trained to good behaviour and obedience. If +I had a child, it would act different, I know, from what that one +did this evening." + +"Old bachelors' children, you know," Mr. Manly said, with a smile. + +"O yes, I know. But silly adages don't excuse neglectful parents," +replied Mr. Pelby, a little touched at the allusion. + +"That is true, Mr. Pelby. But what I meant you to understand by the +remark was, that those who have no children of their own are too +often wanting in a due consideration and forbearance towards those +of other people. I have quite a house full and I know that I take +great pains with them, and that the true management of them costs me +much serious consideration; and yet I have known some of mine to act +much worse than Tommy Little did this evening." + +"Well, all I have to say in the matter, friend Manly, is this:--If I +had a child that acted as rudely as that young one did to-night, I +would, teach him a lesson that he would not forget for the next +twelve months." + +"You don't know what you would do, if you had a child, Pelby. An +active, restless child requires patience and continued forbearance; +and, if it should be your lot to have such a one, I am sure your +natural affection and good sense would combine to prevent your +playing the unreasonable tyrant over it." + +"Perhaps it would. But I am sure I should not think my natural +affection and good sense pledged to let my child do as he pleased, +and annoy every one that came to the house." + +"You were exceedingly annoyed, then, to-night?" + +"Annoyed! Why, I could hardly sit in my chair towards the last. And +when the young imp came pawing me and climbing over me, I could +hardly help tossing him off of my lap upon the floor." + +"You did not seem so much worried. I really thought you were pleased +with the little fellow." + +"Now, that is too bad, Manly! I'd as lief had a monkey screwing and +twisting about in my lap. It was as much as I could do to be civil +to either his father or mother for suffering their brat to tease me +as he did. First, I must be kissed by his bread and butter mouth; +and then he made me suffer a kind of martyrdom in fear of my elegant +lever. A watch is not the thing for a child to play with, and I am +astonished at Little for suffering his young one to annoy a visitor +in that way." + +"Blame them as much as you please, but don't feel unkindly towards +the child," said Manly. "He knows no better. Your watch delighted +him, and of course he wanted it, and any attempt to deprive him of +it was very naturally resisted. His parents are fond of him--and +well they may be--and pet him a great deal; thus he has learned to +expect every visitor to notice him, and also expects to notice and +make free with every visitor. This is all very natural." + +"Natural enough, and so is it to steal; but that don't make it +right. Children should be taught, from the first, to be reserved in +the presence of strangers, and never to come near them unless +invited. If I had one, I'll be bound he wouldn't disgrace me as +Little's child did him to-night." + +"We'll see, one of these days, perhaps," was Manly's quiet remark; +and the friends parted company. + +Ten years often make a great difference in a man's condition, +habits, and feelings. Ten years passed away, and Mr. Pelby was a +husband, and the father of three interesting children,--indulged, of +course, and "pretty considerably" spoiled, yet interesting withal, +and, in the eyes of their father, not to be compared for beauty, +good manners, etc. with any other children inhabiting the same city. +William, the oldest boy, had not quite completed his sixth year. +Emma, a rosy-cheeked, chubby little thing, when asked her age, could +say-- + +"Four years old last June." + +And Henry was just the age that Tommy Little was when he so terribly +annoyed Mr. Pelby. Now, as to Henry's accomplishments, they were +many and various. He could be a good boy when he felt in a pleasant +humour, and could storm, and fret, and pout in a way so well +understood by all parents, that it would be a work of supererogation +to describe it here. But strange mutation of disposition!--Mr. Pelby +could bear these fits of perverseness with a philosophy that would +have astonished even himself, could he have for a moment realized +his former state of mind. When Henry became ill-tempered from any +cause, he had, from loving him, learned that to get into an +ill-humour also would be only adding fuel to flame; and so, on such +occasions, he sought affectionately to calm and soothe his ruffled +feelings. If Henry, or Emma, or William, from any exuberance of +happy feelings, were noisy or boisterous, he did not think it right +to check them suddenly, because he was a little annoyed. He tried, +rather, to feel glad with them--to partake of their joy. In short, +Mr. Pelby had grown into a domestic philosopher. A wife and two or +three children do wonders sometimes! + +Now it so happened about this time, that Mr. and Mrs. Manly and Mr. +and Mrs. Little were spending an evening with Mr. and Mrs. Pelby. +William and Emma had their suppers prepared for them in the kitchen, +and then, as usual, were put to bed; but "dear little Henry" was so +interesting to his parents, and they naturally thought must be so +interesting to their company, that he was allowed to sit up and come +to the tea-table. As Mrs. Pelby had no dining-room, the back parlour +was used for this purpose, and so all the progressive arrangements +of the tea-table were visible. + +"Oh, dinne weddy! dinne weddy!" cried little Henry, sliding down +from the lap of Mrs. Little--whose collar he had been rumpling so +that it was hardly fit to be seen--as soon as he saw the cloth laid; +and, running for a chair, he was soon perched up in it, calling +lustily for "meat." + +"Oh, no, no, Henry! dinner not ready yet!" said Mrs. Pelby, starting +forward, and endeavouring to remove the child from his seat; but +Henry screamed and resisted. + +"Oh, let him sit, mother!" interfered Mr. Pelby. "The little dear +don't understand waiting as we do." + +"Yes, but, father, it is time that he had learned. Tea isn't near +ready yet; and if he is allowed to sit here, he will pull and haul +every thing about," responded Mrs. Pelby. + +"Oh, never mind, mother! Give him some meat, and he'll be quiet +enough. I never like to see little folks made to wait for grown +people; they cannot understand nor appreciate the reason of it." + +And so little Henry was permitted to remain at the table, picking +first at one thing and then at another, much to the discomfort and +mortification of his mother, who could not see in this indulgence +any thing very interesting. Mrs. Little was relieved, although her +collar was disfigured for the evening past hope. + +After a while tea was announced, and the company sat down. + +"Me toffee! me toffee!" cried Henry, stretching out his hands +impatiently. "Me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma!" as soon as Mrs. Pelby +was seated before the tea-tray, and had commenced supplying the cups +with cream and sugar. + +"Yes--yes--Henry shall have coffee. H-u-s-h--there--be quiet--that's +a good boy," she said, soothingly. But-- + +"Me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma!" was continued without +a moment's cessation. "Ma! ma! ma! me toffee! me toffee!" + +"Yes, yes, yes! you shall have coffee in a moment; only be patient, +child!" Mrs. Pelby now said, evidently worried; for Henry was crying +at the top of his voice, and impatiently shaking his hands and +vibrating his whole body. + +But he ceased not a moment until his mother, before any of the +company had been served, prepared him a cup of milk and warm water, +sweetened. Placing his lips to the edge of the cup, Henry drank the +whole of it off before the table was more than half served. + +"Me more toffee, ma!" + +Mrs. Pelby paused, and looked him in the face with an expression of +half despair and half astonishment. + +"Me more toffee, ma!" continued Henry. + +"Yes, wait a moment, and I'll give you more," she said. + +"More toffee, ma!" in a louder voice. + +"Yes, in a moment." + +"More toffee, ma!" This time louder and more impatiently. + +To keep the peace, a second cup of milk and water had to be +prepared, and then Mrs. Pelby finished waiting on her company. But +it soon appeared that the second cup had not really been wanted, for +now that he had it, the child could not swallow more than two or +three draughts. His amusement now consisted in playing in his saucer +with a spoon, which being perceived by his mother, she said to him-- + +"There now, Henry, you didn't want that, after all. Come, let me +pour your tea back into the cup, and set the cup on the waiter, or +you will spill it;" at the same time making a motion to do what she +had proposed. But-- + +"No! no! no!" cried the child, clinging to the saucer, and +attempting to remove it out of his mother's reach. This he did so +suddenly, that the entire contents were thrown into Mrs. Little's +lap. + +"Bless me, Mrs. Little!" exclaimed Mrs. Pelby, really distressed; +"that is too bad! Come, Henry, you must go away from the table;" at +the same time attempting to remove him. But he cried-- + +"No! no! no!" so loud, that she was constrained to desist. + +"There, let him sit; he won't do so any more," said Mr. Pelby. "That +was very naughty, Henry. Come, now, if you want your tea, drink it, +or let me put it away." + +Henry already knew enough of his father to be convinced that when he +spoke in a certain low, emphatic tone, he was in earnest; and so he +very quietly put his mouth down to his saucer and pretended to +drink, though it would have been as strange as pouring water into a +full cup without overflowing it, as for him to have let any more go +down his throat, without spilling a portion already there out at the +top. + +Tea was at last over, and Mrs. Little, on rising from the table, had +opportunity and leisure to examine her beautiful silk, now worn for +the second time. Fortunately, it was of a colour that tea would not +injure, although it was by no means pleasant to have a whole front +breadth completely saturated. Mrs. Pelby made many apologies, but +Mr. Pelby called it a "family accident," and one of a kind that +married people were so familiar with, as scarcely to be annoyed by +them. + +"Come here, Henry," said he. "Just see what you have done! Now go +kiss the lady, and say, 'I'm sorry.'" + +The little fellow's eye brightened, and going up to Mrs. Little, he +pouted out his cherry lips, and, as she kissed him, he said, with a +suddenly-assumed demure, penitent look--"I torry." + +"What's Henry sorry for?" asked Mrs. Little, instantly softening +towards the child, and taking him on her knee. + +"I torry," he repeated, but in a much livelier tone, at the same +time that he clambered up and stood in her lap, with his little +hands again crushing her beautiful French collar. + +"Come here, Henry," said Mr. Manly, who saw that Mrs. Little was +annoyed at this; but Henry would not move. He had espied a comb in +Mrs. Little's head, and had just laid violent hands upon it, +threatening every moment to flood that lady's neck and shoulders +with her own dishevelled tresses. + +"Come and see my watch," said Mr. Manly. + +This was enough. Henry slid from Mrs. Little's lap instantly, and in +the next minute was seated on Mr. Manly's knee, examining that +gentleman's time-keeper. Between opening and shutting the watch, +holding it first to his own and then to Mr. Manly's ear, Henry spent +full a quarter of an hour. Even that considerate, kind-hearted +gentleman's patience began to be impaired, and he could not help +thinking that his friend, Mr. Pelby, ought to be thoughtful enough +to relieve him. Once or twice he made a movement to replace the +watch in his pocket, but this was instantly perceived and as +promptly resisted. The little fellow had an instinctive perception +that Mr. Manly did not wish him to have the watch, and for that very +reason retained possession of it long beyond the time that he would +have done if it had been fully relinquished to him. + +At last he tired of the glittering toy, and returned to annoy Mrs. +Little; but she was saved by the appearance of a servant with fruit +and cakes. + +"Dim me cake! dim me cake!" cried Henry, seizing hold of the +servant's clothes, and pulling her so suddenly as almost to cause +her to let fall the tray that was in her hands. + +To keep the peace, Henry was helped first of all to a slice of +pound-cake. + +"Mo' cake," he said, in a moment or two after, unable to articulate +with any degree of distinctness, for his mouth was so full that each +cheek stood out, and his lips essayed in vain to close over the +abundant supply within. Another piece was given, and this +disappeared as quickly. Then he wanted an apple, and as soon as he +got one, he cried for a second and a third. Then-- + +But we will not chronicle the sayings and doings of little Henry +further; more than to say, that he soon, from being allowed to sit +up beyond the accustomed hour, grew fretful and exceedingly +troublesome, preventing all pleasant intercourse between the +visitors and visited, and that at nine o'clock he was carried off +screaming to his bed. + +"If that were my child," said Mr. Little, pausing at his own door, +and turning round to Mr. and Mrs. Manly, who had accompanied his +wife thus far on their way home, "I would teach him better manners, +or I would half kill him. I never saw such an ill-conditioned little +imp in my life!" + +"Children are children, you know," was Mr. Manly's quiet reply. + +"Yes, but children may be made to behave, if any pains at all be +taken with them. It is really unpardonable for any one to let a +child like that worry visitors as he did us this evening." + +"Few children of his age, Mr. Little, unless of a remarkably quiet +and obedient disposition, are much better than Pelby's little boy." + +"As to that, Mr. Manly," broke in Mrs. Little, "there's our Tommy, a +fine boy of twelve, as you know. He never acted like that when he +was a child. I never had a bit of trouble with him when we had +company. We could bring him down into the parlour when he was of +Henry Pelby's age, and he would go round and kiss all the ladies so +sweetly, and then go off to bed, like a little man, as he was." + +"Ah, Mrs. Little, you forget," said Mr. Manly, laughing. + +"Oh, no, indeed, Mr. Manly. I don't forget these things. We could do +any thing with Tommy at his age, and it was because we managed him +rightly. You can do any thing with children you please." + +"Indeed, then, Mrs. Little, it is more than I can say," remarked +Mrs. Manly. "If my children could be made any thing at all of, they +would have been different from what they are; and yet, I believe," +she added, with a feeling of maternal pride, "they are not the worst +children I have ever seen." + +"Good-nights" were now exchanged, and, after Mr. and Mrs. Manly had +walked a few steps, the former said, + +"Well, this is a curious world that we live in. Ten years ago, +Pelby, then a trim bachelor, as nice and particular as any of the +tribe, said, in allusion to Tommy Little--'If that were my child, I +would half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him!'" + +"He did?" + +"Yes, those were his very words. We were spending an evening at Mr. +and Mrs. Little's, and when Tommy was about two years old or so; and +Pelby was terribly annoyed by him. He acted pretty much as all +children do--that is, pretty much as Henry did to-night. But Pelby +couldn't endure it with any kind of patience." + +"Ha! ha!" laughed out Mrs. Manly, in spite of herself. "How +completely the tables have been turned!" + +"Yes, they have been, certainly. But what is a little singular is, +that neither of the parties concerned seem to have gained wisdom by +their experience. Pelby forgets how other people's children once +annoyed him, and Mr. and Mrs. Little seem to be entirely unconscious +that their paragon was very much like all other little boys when he +was only about two or three years old. For my part, I think we +should be careful not to let our children trespass upon visitors. +None can feel the same interest in them that we do, or exercise the +same forbearance towards their faults. Faults they all have, which +need especial care in their correction; and these should be suffered +to appear as rarely as possible under circumstances which prevent a +salutary check being placed upon them. For this reason, you know, we +have made it a matter of concert not to let our children, while, too +young to understand something of propriety, be present, but for a +very short time, when we had company. The moment they become rude or +too familiar, they were quietly taken from the room." + +"Yes; and knowing as I do," said Mrs. Manly, "how very restless some +children with active minds are, I am never disposed to look with +unfavourable eyes upon any, even when wild, turbulent, and heedless. +They act as they feel; and so far as evil affections show +themselves, we know they are inherited, and that it is not in the +power of the child to remove them. We should then be moved, it seems +to me, with a purer affection for them; with something of pity mixed +with our love, and, instead of suffering their wrong actions to +repulse us, we should draw towards them with a desire to teach them +what is wrong, and impart to them some power to overcome evil." + +"If all thought as you, Mary," said Mr. Manly, as they gained their +own doors, "we should hear no one railing out against other people's +children, while he indulged his own. A fault too common with most +parents." + + + + +I WILL! + + +"YOU look sober, Laura. What has thrown a veil over your happy +face?" said Mrs. Cleaveland to her niece, one morning, on finding +her alone and with a very thoughtful countenance. + +"Do I really look sober?" and Laura smiled as she spoke. + +"You did just now. But the sunshine has already dispelled the +transient cloud. I am glad that a storm was not portended." + +"I felt sober, aunt," Laura said, after a few moments--her face +again becoming serious. + +"So I supposed, from your looks." + +"And I feel sober still." + +"Why?" + +"I am really discouraged, aunt." + +"About what?" + +The maiden's cheek deepened its hue, but she did not reply. + +"You and Harry have not fallen out, like a pair of foolish lovers, I +hope." + +"Oh, no!" was the quick and emphatic answer. + +"Then what has troubled the quiet waters of your spirit? About what +are you discouraged?" + +"I will tell you," the maiden replied. "It was only about a week +after my engagement with Harry that I called upon Alice Stacy, and +found her quite unhappy. She had not been married over a few months. +I asked what troubled her, and she said, 'I feel as miserable as I +can be.' 'But what makes you miserable, Alice?' I inquired. 'Because +William and I have quarrelled--that's the reason,' she said, with +some levity, tossing her head and compressing her lips, with a kind +of defiance. I was shocked--so much so, that I could not speak. 'The +fact is,' she resumed, before I could reply, 'all men are arbitrary +and unreasonable. They think women inferior to them, and their wives +as a higher order of slaves. But I am not one to be put under any +man's feet. William has tried that trick with me, and failed. Of +course, to be foiled by a woman is no very pleasant thing for one of +your lords of creation. A tempest in a teapot was the consequence. +But I did not yield the point in dispute; and, what is more, have no +idea of doing so. He will have to find out, sooner or later, that I +am his equal in every way; and the quicker he can be made conscious +of this, the better for us both. Don't you think so?' I made no +answer. I was too much surprised and shocked. 'All men,' she +continued, 'have to be taught this. There never was a husband who +did not, at first, attempt to lord it over his wife. And there never +was a woman, whose condition as a wife was at all above that of a +passive slave, who did not find it necessary to oppose herself at +first, with unflinching perseverance.' + +"To all this, and a great deal more, I could say nothing. It choked +me up. Since then, I have met her frequently, at home and elsewhere, +but she has never looked happy. Several times she has said to me, in +company, when I have taken a seat beside her, and remarked that she +seemed dull, 'Yes, I am dull; but Mr. Stacy, there, you see, enjoys +himself. Men always enjoy themselves in company--apart from their +wives, of course.' I would sometimes oppose to this a sentiment +palliative of her husband; as, that, in company, a man very +naturally wished to add his mite to the general joyousness, or +something of a like nature. But it only excited her, and drew forth +remarks that shocked my feelings. Up to this day, they do not appear +to be on any better terms. Then, there is Frances Glenn--married +only three months, and as fond of carping at her husband for his +arbitrary, domineering spirit, as is Mrs. Stacy. I could name two or +three others, who have been married, some a shorter and some a +longer period, that do not seem to be united by any closer bonds. + +"It is the condition of these young friends, aunt, that causes me to +feel serious. I am to be married in a few weeks. Can it be possible +that my union with Henry Armour will be no happier, no more perfect +than theirs? This I cannot believe. And yet, the relation that Alice +and Frances hold to their husbands, troubles me whenever I think of +it. Henry, as far as I have been able to understand him, has strong +points in his character. From a right course of action,--or, from a +course of action that he thinks right,--no consideration, I am sure, +would turn him. I, too, have mental characteristics somewhat +similar. There is, likewise, about me, a leaven of stubbornness. I +tremble when the thought of opposition between us, upon any subject, +crosses my mind. I would rather die--so I feel about it--than ever +have a misunderstanding with my husband." + +Laura ceased, and her aunt, who was, she now perceived, much +agitated, arose and left the room without speaking. The reason of +this to Laura was altogether unaccountable. Her aunt Cleaveland, +always so mild, so calm, to be thus strongly disturbed! What could +it mean? What could there be in her maidenly fears to excite the +feelings of one so good, and wise, and gentle? An hour afterwards, +and while she yet sat, sober and perplexed in mind, in the same +place where Mrs. Cleaveland had left her, a domestic came in and +said that her aunt wished to see her in her own room. Laura attended +her immediately. She found her calm and self-possessed, but paler +than usual. "Sit down beside me, dear," Mrs. Cleaveland said, +smiling faintly, as her niece came in. + +"What you said this morning, Laura," she began, after a few moments, +"recalled my own early years so vividly, that I could not keep down +emotions I had deemed long since powerless. The cause of those +emotions it is now, I clearly see, my duty to reveal--that is, to +you. For years I have carefully avoided permitting my mind to go +back to the past, in vain musings over scenes that bring no pleasant +thoughts, no glad feelings. I have, rather, looked into the future +with a steady hope, a calm reliance. But, for your sake, I will draw +aside the veil. May the relation I am now about to give you have the +effect I desire! Then shall I not suffer in vain. How vividly, at +this moment, do I remember the joyful feelings that pervaded my +bosom, when, like you, a maiden, I looked forward to my wedding-day. +Mr. Cleaveland was a man, in many respects, like Henry Armour. +Proud, firm, yet gentle and amiable when not opposed;--a man with +whom I might have been supremely happy;--a man whose faults I might +have corrected--not by open opposition to them--not by seeming to +notice them--but by leading him to see them himself. But this course +I did not pursue. I was proud; I was self-willed; I was unyielding. +Elements like these can never come into opposition without a victory +on either side being as disastrous as the defeats. We were married. +Oh, how sweet was the promise of my wedding-day! Of my husband I was +very fond. Handsome, educated, and with talents of a high order, +there was every thing about him to make the heart of a young wife +proud. Tenderly we loved each other. Like days in Elysium passed the +first few months of our wedded life. Our thoughts and wishes were +one. After that, gradually a change appeared to come over my +husband. He deferred less readily to my wishes. His own will was +more frequently opposed to mine, and his contentions for victory +longer and longer continued. This surprised and pained me. But it +did not occur to me, that my tenaciousness of opinion might seem as +strange to him as did his to me. It did not occur to me, that there +would be a propriety in my deferring to him--at least so far as to +give up opposition. I never for a moment reflected that a proud, +firm-spirited man, might be driven off from an opposing wife, rather +than drawn closer and united in tenderer bonds. I only perceived my +rights as an equal assailed. And, from that point of view, saw his +conduct as dogmatical and overbearing, whenever he resolutely set +himself against me, as was far too frequently the case. + +"One day,--we had then been married about six months,--he said to +me, a little seriously, yet smiling as he spoke, 'Jane, did not I +see you on the street, this morning?' 'You did,' I replied. 'And +with Mrs. Corbin?' 'Yes.' My answer to this last question was not +given in a very pleasant tone. The reason was this. Mrs. Corbin, a +recent acquaintance, was no favourite with my husband; and he had +more than once mildly suggested that she was not, in his view, a fit +associate for me. This rather touched my pride. It occurred to me, +that I ought to be the best judge of my female associates, and that +for my husband to make any objections was an assumption on his part, +that, as a wife, I was called upon to resist. I did not, on previous +occasions, say any thing very decided, contenting myself with +parrying his objections laughingly. This time, however, I was in a +less forbearing mood. 'I wish you would not make that woman your +friend' he said, after I had admitted that he was right in his +observation. 'And why not, pray?' I asked, looking at him quite +steadily. 'For reasons before given, Jane,' he replied, mildly, but +firmly. 'There are reports in circulation touching her character, +that I fear are'--'They are false!' I interrupted him. 'I know they +are false!' I spoke with a sudden excitement. My voice trembled, my +cheek burned, and I was conscious that my eye shot forth no mild +light. 'They are true--I know they are true!' Mr. Cleaveland said, +sternly, but apparently unruffled. 'I don't believe it,' I retorted. +'I know her far better. She is an injured woman.' + +"'Jane,' my husband now said, his voice slightly trembling, 'you are +my wife. As such, your reputation is as dear to me as the apple of +my eye. Suspicion has been cast upon Mrs. Corbin, and that suspicion +I have good reason for believing well founded. If you associate with +her--if you are seen upon the street with her, your fair fame will +receive a taint. This I cannot permit.' + +"There was, to my mind, a threat contained in the last sentence--a +threat of authoritative intervention. At this my pride took fire. + +"'Cannot permit!' I said, drawing myself up. 'What do you mean, Mr. +Cleveland?' + +"The brow of my husband instantly flushed. He was silent for a +moment or two. Then he said, with forced calmness, yet in a +resolute, meaning tone-- + +"'Jane, I do not wish you to keep company with Mrs. Corbin.' + +"'I WILL!' was my indignant reply. + +"His face grew deadly pale. For a moment his whole frame trembled as +if some fearful struggle were going on within. Then he quietly +arose, and, without looking at me, left the room. Oh! how deeply did +I regret uttering those unhappy words the instant they were spoken! +But repentance came too late. For about the space of ten minutes, +pride struggled with affection and duty. At the end of that time the +latter triumphed, and I hastened after my husband to ask his +forgiveness for what I said. But he was not in the parlours. He was +not in the house! I asked a servant if she had seen him, and +received for reply that he had gone out. + +"Anxiously passed the hours until nightfall. The sad twilight, as it +gathered dimly around, threw a deeper gloom over my heart. My +husband usually came home before dark. Now he was away beyond his +accustomed hour. Instead of returning gladly to meet his young wife, +he was staying away, because that young wife had thrown off the +attractions of love and presented to him features harsh and +repulsive. How anxiously I longed to hear the sound of his +footsteps--to see his face--to hear his voice! The moment of his +entrance I resolved should be the moment of my humble confession of +wrong--of my faithful promise never again to set up my will +determinedly in opposition to his judgment. But minute after minute +passed after nightfall--hours succeeded minutes--and these rolled on +until the whole night wore away, and he came not back to me. As the +gray light of morning stole into my chamber, a terrible fear took +hold of me, that made my heart grow still in my bosom--the fear that +he would never return--that I had driven him off from me. Alas! this +fear was too nigh the truth. The whole of that day passed, and the +next and the next, without any tidings. No one had seen him since he +left me. An anxious excitement spread among all his friends. The +only account I could give of him, was, that he had parted from me in +good health, and in a sane mind. + +"A week rolled by, and still no word came. I was nearly distracted. +What I suffered, no tongue can tell, no heart conceive. I have often +wondered that I did not become insane but from this sad condition I +was saved. Through all, my reason, though often trembling, did not +once forsake me. It was on the tenth day from that upon which we had +jarred so heavily as to be driven widely asunder, that a letter came +to me, post-marked New York, and endorsed 'In haste.' My hands +trembled so that I could with difficulty break the seal. The +contents were to the effect that my husband had been lying for +several days at one of the hotels there, very ill, but now past the +crisis of his disease, and thought by the physician to be out of +danger. The writer urged me, from my husband, to come on +immediately. In eight hours from the time I received that letter, I +was in New York. Alas! it was too late; the disease had returned +with double violence, and snapped the feeble thread of life. I never +saw my husband's living face again." + +The self-possession of Mrs. Cleaveland, at this part of her +narrative, gave way. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed +violently, while the tears came trickling through her fingers. + +"My dear Laura," she resumed, after the lapse of many minutes, +looking up as she spoke, with a clear eye, and a sober, but placid +countenance, "it is for your sake that I have turned my gaze +resolutely back. May the painful history I have given you make a +deep impression upon your heart; let it warn you of the sunken rock +upon which my bark foundered. Avoid carefully, religiously avoid +setting yourself in opposition to your husband; should he prove +unreasonable or arbitrary, nothing is to be gained, and every thing +lost by contention. By gentleness, by forbearance, by even suffering +wrong at times, you will be able to win him over to a better spirit: +an opposite course will as assuredly put thorns in your pillow as +you adopt it. Look at the unhappy condition of the friends you have +named; their husbands are, in their eyes, exacting, domineering +tyrants. But this need not be. Let them act truly the woman's part. +Let them not oppose, but yield, and they will find that their +present tyrants' will become their lovers. Above all, never, under +any circumstances, either jestingly or in earnest, say '_I will_,' +when you are opposed. That declaration is never made without its +robbing the wife of a portion of her husband's confidence and love; +its utterance has dimmed the fire upon many a smiling hearth-stone." + +Laura could not reply; the relation of her aunt had deeply shocked +her feelings. But the words she had uttered sank into her heart; and +when her trial came--when she was tempted to set her will in +opposition to her husband's, and resolutely to contend for what she +deemed right, a thought of Mrs. Cleaveland's story would put a seal +upon her lips. It was well. The character of Henry Armour too nearly +resembled that of Mr. Cleaveland: he could illy have brooked a +wife's opposition; but her tenderness, her forbearance, her devoted +love, bound her to him with cords that drew closer and closer each +revolving year. She never opposed him further than to express a +difference of opinion when such a difference existed, and its +utterance was deemed useful; and she carefully avoided, on all +occasions, the doing of any thing of which he in the smallest degree +disapproved. The consequence was, that her opinion was always +weighed by him carefully, and often deferred to. A mutual confidence +and a mutual dependence upon each other gradually took the place of +early reserves, and now they sweetly draw together--now they +smoothly glide along the stream of life blessed indeed in all their +marriage relations. Who will say that Laura did not act a wise part? +Who will say that in sacrificing pride and self-will, she did not +gain beyond all calculation? No one, surely. She is not her +husband's slave, but his companion and equal. She has helped to +reform and remodel his character, and make him less arbitrary, less +self-willed, less disposed to be tyrannical. In her mild +forbearance, he has seen a beauty more attractive far than lip or +cheek, or beaming eye. + +Instead of looking upon his wife as below him, Henry Armour feels +that she is his superior, and as such he tenderly regards and +lovingly cherishes her. He never thinks of obedience from her, but +rather studies to conform himself to her most lightly-spoken wish. +To be thus united, what wife will not for a time sacrifice her +feelings when her young self-willed husband so far forgets himself +as to become exacting! The temporary loss will turn out in the +future to be a great gain. + + + + +A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. + + +"THERE come the children from school," said Aunt Mary, looking from +the window. "Just see that Clarence! he'll have Henry in the gutter. +I never saw just such another boy; why can't he come quietly along +like other children? There! now he must stop to throw stones at the +pigs. That boy'll give you the heart-ache yet, Anna." + +Mrs. Hartley made no reply, but laid aside her work quietly and left +the room to see that their dinner was ready. In a few minutes the +street-door was thrown open, and the children came bounding in full +of life, and noisy as they could be. + +"Where is your coat, Clarence?" she asked, in a pleasant tone, +looking her oldest boy in the face. + +"Oh, I forgot!" he replied, cheerfully; and turning quickly, he ran +down stairs, and lifting his coat from where, in his thoughtlessness, +he had thrown it upon the floor, hung it up in its proper place, and +then sprang up the stairs. + +"Isn't dinner ready yet?" he said, with fretful impatience, his +whole manner changing suddenly. "I'm hungry." + +"It will be ready in a few minutes, Clarence." + +"I want it now. I'm hungry." + +"Did you ever hear of the man," said Mrs. Hartley, in a voice that +showed no disturbance of mind, "who wanted the sun to rise an hour +before its time?" + +"No, mother. Tell me about it, won't you?" + +All impatience had vanished from the boy's face. + +"There was a man who had to go upon a journey; the stage-coach was +to call for him at sun-rise. More than an hour before it was time +for the sun to be up, the man was all ready to go, and for the whole +of that hour he walked the floor impatiently, grumbling at the sun +because he did not rise. 'I'm all ready, and I want to be going,' he +said. 'It's time the sun was up, long ago.' Don't you think he was a +very foolish man?" + +Clarence laughed, and said he thought the man was very foolish +indeed. + +"Do you think he was more foolish than you were just now for +grumbling because dinner wasn't ready?" + +Clarence laughed again, and said he did not know. Just then Hannah, +the cook, brought in the waiter with the children's dinner upon it. +Clarence sprang for a chair, and drew it hastily and noisily to the +table. + +"Try and see if you can't do that more orderly, my dear," his mother +said, in a quiet voice, looking at him, as she spoke, with a steady +eye. + +The boy removed his chair, and then replaced it gently. + +"That is much better, my son." + +And thus she corrected his disorderly habits, quieted his impatient +temper, and checked his rudeness, without showing any disturbance. +This she had to do daily. At almost every meal she found it +necessary to repress his rude impatience. It was line upon line, and +precept upon precept. But she never tired, and rarely permitted +herself to show that she was disturbed, no matter how deeply grieved +she was at times over the wild and reckless spirit of her boy. + +On the next day she was not very well; her head ached badly all the +morning. Hearing the children in the passage when they came in from +school at noon, she was, rising from the bed where she had lain +down, to attend to them and give them their dinners, when Aunt Mary +said--"Don't get up, Anna, I will see to the children." + +It was rarely that Mrs. Hartley let any one do for them what she +could do herself, for no one else could manage the unhappy temper of +Clarence; but so violent was the pain in her head, that she let Aunt +Mary go, and sank back upon the pillow from which she had arisen. A +good deal of noise and confusion continued to reach her ears, from +the moment the children came in. At length a loud cry and passionate +words from Clarence caused her to rise up quickly and go over to the +dining-room. All was confusion there, and Aunt Mary out of humour +and scolding prodigiously. Clarence was standing up at the table, +looking defiance at her, on account of some interference with his +strong self-will. The moment the boy saw his mother, his countenance +changed, and a look of confusion took the place of anger. + +"Come over to my room, Clarence," she said, in a low voice; there +was sadness in its tones, that made him feel sorry that he had given +vent so freely to his ill-temper. + +"What was the matter, my son?" Mrs. Hartley asked, as soon as they +were alone, taking Clarence by the hand and looking steadily at him. + +"Aunt Mary wouldn't help me when I asked her." + +"Why not?" + +"She would help Henry first." + +"No doubt she had a reason for it. Do you know her reason?" + +"She said he was youngest." Clarence pouted out his lips, and spoke +in a very disagreeable tone. + +"Don't you think that was a very good reason?" + +"I've as good a right to be helped first as he has." + +"Let us see if that is so. You and Marien and Henry came in from +school, all hungry and anxious for your dinners. Marien is +oldest--she, one would suppose, from the fact that she is oldest, +would be better able to feel for her brothers, and be willing to see +their wants supplied before her own. You are older than Henry, and +should feel for him in the same way. No doubt this was Aunt Mary's +reason for helping Henry first. Had she helped Marien?" + +"No, ma'am." + +"Did Marien complain?" + +"No, ma'am." + +"No one complained but my unhappy Clarence. Do you know why you +complained? I can tell you, as I have often told you before; it is +because you indulge in very selfish feelings. All who do so, make +themselves miserable. If, instead of wanting Aunt Mary to help you +first, you had, from a love of your little brother, been willing to +see him first attended to, you would have enjoyed a real pleasure. +If you had said--'Aunt Mary, help Harry first,' I am sure Henry +would have said instantly--' No, Aunt Mary, help brother Clarence +first.' How pleasant this would have been! how happy would all of us +have felt at thus seeing two little brothers generously preferring +one another!" + +There was an unusual degree of tenderness, even sadness in the voice +of his mother, that affected Clarence; but he struggled with his +feelings. When, however, she resumed, and said--"I have felt quite +sick all the morning; my head has ached badly--so badly that I have +had to lie down. I always give you your dinners when you come home, +and try to make you comfortable. To-day I let Aunt Mary do it, +because I felt so sick; but I am sorry that I did not get up, sick +as I was, and do it myself; then I might have prevented this unhappy +outbreak of my boy's unruly temper, that has made not only my head +ache ten times as badly as it did, but my heart ache also"-- + +Clarence burst into tears, and throwing his arms ground his mother's +neck, wept bitterly. + +"I will try and be good, dear mother," he said. "I do try sometimes, +but it seems that I can't." + +"You must always try, my dear son. Now dry up your tears, and go out +and get your dinner. Or, if you would rather I should go with you, I +will do so." + +"No, dear mother," replied the boy, affectionately, "you are sick; +you must not go. I will be good." + +Clarence kissed his mother again, and then returned quietly to the +dining-room. + +"Naughty boy!" said Aunt Mary, as he entered, looking sternly at +him. + +A bitter retort came instantly to the tongue of Clarence, but he +checked himself with a strong effort, and took his place at the +table. Instead of soothing the quick-tempered boy, Aunt Mary chafed +him by her words and manner during the whole meal, and it was only +the image of his mother's tearful face, and the remembrance that she +was sick, that restrained an outbreak of his passionate temper. + +When Clarence left the table, he returned to his mother's room, and +laid his head upon the pillow where her's was resting. + +"I love you, mother," he said, affectionately, "you are good. But I +hate Aunt Mary." + +"Oh, no, Clarence; you must not say that you hate Aunt Mary, for +Aunt Mary is very kind to you. You mustn't hate anybody." + +"She isn't kind to me, mother. She calls me a bad boy, and says +every thing to make me angry when I want to be good." + +"Think, my son, if there is not some reason for Aunt Mary calling +you a bad boy. You know yourself, that you act very naughtily +sometimes, and provoke Aunt Mary--a great deal." + +"But she said I was a naughty boy when I went out just now, and I +was sorry for what I had done, and wanted to be good." + +"Aunt Mary didn't know that you were sorry, I am sure. When she +called you 'naughty boy,' what did you say?" + +"I was going to say 'You're a fool!' but I didn't. I tried hard not +to let my tongue say the bad words, though it wanted to." + +"Why did you try not to say them?" + +"Because it would have been wrong, and would have made you feel +sorry; and I love you." Again the repentant boy kissed her. His eyes +were full of tears, and so were the eyes of his mother. + +While talking over this incident with her husband, Mrs. Hartley +said--"Were not all these impressions so light, I would feel +encouraged. The boy has warm and tender feelings, but I fear that +his passionate temper and selfishness will, like evil weeds, +completely check their growth." + +"The case is bad enough, Anna, but not so bad, I hope, as you fear. +These good affections are never active in vain. They impress the +mind with an indelible impression. In after years the remembrance of +them will revive the states they produced, and give strength to good +desires and intentions. Amid all his irregularities and wanderings +from good, in after-life, the thoughts of his mother will restore +the feelings he had to-day, and draw him back from evil with cords +of love that cannot be broken. The good now implanted will remain, +and, like ten just men, save the city. In most instances where men +abandon themselves finally to evil courses, it will be found that +the impressions made in childhood were not of the right kind; that +the mother's influence was not what it should have been. For myself, +I am sure that a different mother would have made me a different +man. When a boy, I was too much like Clarence; but the tenderness +with which my mother always treated me, and the unimpassioned but +earnest manner in which she reproved and corrected my faults, +subdued my unruly temper. When I became restless or impatient, she +always had a book to read to me, or a story to tell, or had some +device to save me from myself. My father was neither harsh nor +indulgent towards me; I cherish his memory with respect and love; +but I have different feelings when I think of my mother. I often +feel, even now, as if she were near me--as if her cheek were laid to +mine. My father would place his hand upon my head caressingly, but +my mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did not expect my +father to do more--I do not know that I would have loved him had he +done more; for him it was a natural expression of affection; but no +act is too tender for a mother. Her kiss upon my cheek, her warm +embrace, are all felt now; and the older I grow, the more holy seem +the influences that surrounded me in childhood." + + + + +THE POWER OF PATIENCE. + + +I HAVE a very excellent friend, who married some ten years ago, and +now has her own cares and troubles in a domestic establishment +consisting of her husband and herself, five children, and two +servants. Like a large majority of those similarly situated, Mrs. +Martinet finds her natural stock of patience altogether inadequate +to the demand therefor; and that there is an extensive demand will +be at once inferred when I mention that four of her five children +are boys. + +I do not think Mrs. Martinet's family government by any means +perfect, though she has certainly very much improved it, and gets on +with far more comfort to herself and all around her than she did. +For the improvement at which I have hinted, I take some credit to +myself, though I am by no means certain, that, were I situated as my +friend is, I should govern my family as well as she governs hers. I +am aware that a maiden lady, like myself, young or old, it matters +not to tell the reader which, can look down from the quiet regions +where she lives, and see how easy it would be for the wife and +mother to reduce all to order in her turbulent household. But I am +at the same time conscious of the difficulties that beset the wife +and mother in the incessant, exhausting, and health-destroying +nature of her duties, and how her mind, from these causes, must +naturally lose its clear-seeing qualities when most they are needed, +and its calm and even temper when its exercise is of most +consequence. Too little allowance, I am satisfied, is made for the +mother, who, with a shattered nervous system, and suffering too, +often, from physical prostration, is ever in the midst of her little +family of restless spirits, and compelled to administer to their +thousand wants, to guide, guard, protect, govern, and restrain their +evil passions, when of all things, repose and quiet of body and +mind, for even a brief season, would be the greatest blessing she +could ask. + +I have seen a wife and mother, thus situated, betrayed into a hasty +expression, or lose her self-command so far as to speak with fretful +impatience to a child who rather needed to be soothed by a calmly +spoken word; and I have seen her even-minded husband, who knew not +what it was to feel a pain, or to suffer from nervous prostration, +reprove that wife with a look that called the tears to her eyes. She +was wrong, but he was wrong in a greater degree. The over-tried wife +needed her husband's sustaining patience, and gently spoken counsel, +not his cold reproof. + +Husbands, as far as my observation gives me the ability to judge, +have far less consideration for, and patience with their wives, than +they are entitled to receive. If any should know best the wife's +trials, sufferings, and incessant exhausting duties, it is the +husband, and he, of all others, should be the last to censure, if, +from very prostration of body and mind, she be sometimes betrayed +into hasty words, that generally do more harm among children and +domestics than total silence in regard to what is wrong. But this is +a digression. + +One day, I called to see Mrs. Martinet, and found her in a very +disturbed state of mind. + +"I am almost worried to death, Kate!" she said, soon after I came +in. + +"You look unhappy," I returned. "What has happened?" + +"What is always happening," she replied. "Scarcely a day passes over +my head that my patience is not tried to the utmost. I must let +every body in the house do just as he or she likes, or else there is +a disturbance. I am not allowed to speak out my own mind, without +some one's being offended." + +"It is a great trial, as well as responsibility to have the charge +of a family," I remarked. + +"Indeed, and you may well say that. No one knows what it is but she +who has the trial. The greatest trouble is with your domestics. As a +class, they are, with few exceptions, dirty, careless, and impudent. +I sometimes think it gives them pleasure to interfere with your +household arrangements and throw all into disorder. This seems +especially to be the spirit of my present cook. My husband is +particular about having his meals at the hour, and is never pleased +when irregularities occur, although he does not often say any thing; +this I told Hannah, when she first came, and have scolded her about +being behindhand a dozen times since; and yet we do not have a meal +at the hour oftener than two or three times a week. + +"This morning, Mr. Martinet asked me if I wouldn't be particular in +seeing that dinner was on the table exactly at two o'clock. As soon +as he was gone, I went down into the kitchen and said, 'Do, for +mercy's sake, Hannah, have dinner ready at the hour to-day. Mr. +Martinet particularly desires it.' Hannah made no answer. It is one +of her disagreeable habits, when you speak to her. 'Did you hear +me?' I asked, quite out of patience with her. The creature looked up +at me with an impudent face and said, pertly, 'I'm not deaf.' 'Then, +why didn't you answer me when I spoke? It's a very ugly habit that +you have of not replying when any one addresses you. How is it to be +known that you hear what is said?' The spirit in which Hannah met my +request to have dinner ready in time, satisfied me that she would so +manage as to throw it off beyond the regular hour. I left the +kitchen feeling, as you may well suppose, exceedingly worried." + +Just then the door of the room in which we were sitting was thrown +open with a bang, and in bounded Harry, Mrs. Martinet's eldest +boy--a wild young scape-grace of a fellow--and whooping out some +complaint against his sister. His mother, startled and annoyed by +the rude interruption, ordered him to leave the room instantly. But +Harry stood his ground without moving an eyelash. + +"Do you hear?" And Mrs. Martinet stamped with her foot, to give +stronger emphasis to her words. + +"Lizzy snatched my top-cord out of my hands, and won't give it to +me!" + +"Go out of this room!" + +"Shan't Lizzy give me my top-cord?" + +"Go out, I tell you!" + +"I want my top-cord." + +"Go out!" + +My poor friend's face was red, and her voice trembling with passion. +With each renewed order for the child to leave the room, she stamped +with her foot upon the floor. Harry, instead of going out as he was +directed to do, kept advancing nearer and nearer, as he repeated his +complaint, until he came close up to where we were sitting. + +"Didn't I tell you to go out!" exclaimed his mother, losing all +patience. + +As she spoke, she arose hastily, and seizing him by the arm, +dragged, rather than led him from the room. + +"I never saw such a child!" she said, returning after closing the +door upon Harry. "Nothing does but force. You might talk to him all +day without moving him an inch, when he gets in one of these moods." + +Bang went the door open, and, "I want my top-cord!" followed +in louder and more passionate tones than before. + +"Isn't it beyond all endurance!" cried my friend, springing up and +rushing across the room. + +The passionate child, who had been spoiled by injudicious +management, got a sound whipping and was shut up in a room by +himself. After performing this rather unpleasant task, Mrs. Martinet +returned to the parlour, flushed, excited, and trembling in every +nerve. + +"I expect that boy will kill me yet," she said, as she sank, +panting, into a chair. "It is surprising how stubborn and +self-willed he grows. I don't know how to account for it. He never +has his own way--I never yield an inch to him when he gets in these +terrible humours. Oh, dear! I feel sometimes like giving up in +despair." + +I did not make a reply, for I could not say any thing that would not +have been a reproof of her impatient temper. After my friend had +grown calmer, she renewed her narrative about the dinner. + +"As I was saying, when that boy interrupted us, I left the kitchen +very much worried, and felt worried all the morning. Several times I +went down to see how things were coming on, but it was plain that +Hannah did not mean to have dinner at the hour. When it was time to +put the meat on to roast, the fire was all down in the range. Half +an hour was lost in renewing it. As I expected, when my husband came +home for his dinner, at the regular time, the table was not even +set. + +"'Bless me!' he said, 'isn't dinner ready? I told you that I wished +it at the hour, particularly. I have a business engagement at +half-past two, that must be met. It is too bad! I am out of all +patience with these irregularities. I can't wait, of course.' + +"And saying this, Mr. Martinet turned upon his heel and left the +house. As you may suppose, I did not feel very comfortable, nor in a +very good humour with Hannah. When she made her appearance to set +the table, which was not for a quarter of an hour, I gave her about +as good a setting down, I reckon, as she ever had in her life. Of +course, I was paid back in impudence which I could not stand, and +therefore gave her notice to quit. If ever a woman was tried beyond +endurance, I am. My very life is becoming a burden to me. The worst +part of it is, there is no prospect of a change for the better. +Things, instead of growing better, grow worse." + +"It is not so bad as that, I hope," I could not help remarking. +"Have you never thought of a remedy for the evils of which you +complain?" + +"A remedy, Kate! What remedy is there?" + +Mrs. Martinet looked at me curiously. + +"If not a remedy, there is, I am sure, a palliative," I returned, +feeling doubtful of the effect of what I had it in my mind to +express. + +"What is the remedy or palliative of which you speak. Name it, for +goodness' sake! Like a drowning man, I will clutch it, if it be but +a straw." + +"The remedy is _patience_." My voice slightly faltered as I spoke. + +Instantly the colour deepened on the face of Mrs. Martinet. But our +close intimacy, and her knowledge of the fact that I was really a +friend, prevented her from being offended. + +"Patience!" she said, after she had a little recovered herself. +"Patience is no remedy. To endure is not to cure." + +"In that, perhaps, you are mistaken," I returned. "The effect of +patience is to cure domestic evils. A calm exterior and a gentle, +yet firm voice, will in nine cases in ten, effect more than the most +passionate outbreak of indignant feelings. I have seen it tried over +and over again, and I am sure of the effect." + +"I should like to have seen the effect of a gentle voice upon my +Harry, just now." + +"Forgive me for saying," I answered to this, "that in my opinion, if +you had met his passionate outbreak at the wrong he had suffered in +losing his top-cord, in a different manner from what you did, that +the effect would have been of a like different character." + +My friend's face coloured more deeply, and her lips trembled. But +she had good sense, and this kept her from being offended at what I +said. I went on-- + +"There is no virtue more necessary in the management of a household +than patience. It accomplishes almost every thing. Yet it is a hard +virtue to practise, and I am by no means sure that, if I were in +your place, I would practise it any better than you do. But it is of +such vital importance to the order, comfort, and well-being of a +family, to be able patiently and calmly to meet every disturbing and +disorderly circumstance, that it is worth a struggle to attain the +state of mind requisite to do so. To meet passion with passion does +no good, but harm. The mind, when disturbed from any cause, is +disturbed more deeply when it meets an opposing mind in a similar +state. This is as true of children as of grown persons, and perhaps +more so, for their reason is not matured, and therefore there is +nothing to balance their minds. It is also more true of those who +have not learned, from reason, to control themselves, as is the case +with too large a portion of our domestics; who need to be treated +with almost as much forbearance and consideration as children." + +These remarks produced a visible effect upon Mrs. Martinet. She +became silent and reflective, and continued so, to a great extent, +during the half-hour that I remained. + +Nearly two weeks elapsed before I called upon my friend again. I +found her, happily, in a calmer state of mind than upon my previous +visit. We were in the midst of a pleasant conversation, half an hour +after I had come in, when one of the children, a boy between seven +and eight years old, came into the room and made some complaint +against his brother. The little fellow was excited, and broke in +upon our quiet chitchat with a rude jar that I felt quite sensibly. +I expected, of course, to hear him ordered from the room instantly. +That had been my friend's usual proceeding when these interruptions +occurred; at least it had been so when I happened to be a visitor. +But instead of this, she said in a low, mild, soothing voice, + +"Well, never mind, Willy. You stay in the parlour with us, where +Harry can't trouble you." + +This was just the proposition, above all others, to please the +child. His face brightened, and he came and nestled up closely to +his mother, who was sitting on a corner of the sofa. Drawing an arm +around him, she went on with the remarks she happened to be making +when the interruption of his entrance occurred. No very long time +elapsed before the parlour door flew open, and Harry entered, +asking, as he did so, in a loud voice, for Willy. + +"Willy is here. What do you want with him?" said the mother, in a +quiet, but firm tone. + +"I want him to come and play." + +"You were not kind to Willy, and he doesn't wish to play with you." + +"Come, Willy, and play, and I will be kind," said Harry. + +"Will you let me be the master sometimes?" asked the little fellow, +raising himself up from where he remained seated beside his mother. + +"Yes, you shall be master, sometimes." + +"Then I'll play," and Willy sprang from the sofa and bounded from +the room, as happy as he could be. + +The mother smiled, and looking into my face, as soon as we were +alone, said-- + +"You see, Kate, that I am trying your remedy, patience." + +"With most happy results, I am glad to see." + +"With better results than I could have believed, certainly. +Gentleness, consideration, and firmness, I find do a great deal, and +their exercise leaves my own mind in a good state. There is a power +in patience that I did not believe it possessed. I can do more by a +mildly spoken word, than by the most emphatic command uttered in a +passion. This is the experience of a few weeks. But, alas! Kate, to +be able to exercise patience--how hard a thing that is! It requires +constant watchfulness and a constant effort. Every hour I find +myself betrayed into the utterance of some hasty word, and feel its +powerlessness compared to those that are most gently spoken." + +"Do you get on with your domestics any better than you did?" + +"Oh, yes! Far better." + +"I suppose you sent Hannah away some time ago?" + +"No. I have her yet." + +"Indeed!" + +"Yes, and she does very well." + +"Does she get your meals ready in time?" + +"She is punctual to the minute." + +"Really she must have changed for the better! And is this, too, the +result of patience and forbearance on your part?" + +"I suppose so. What you said in regard to having patience, at your +last visit, struck me forcibly, and caused me to feel humbled and +self-condemned. The more I thought of it, the more satisfied was I +that you were right. But it was one thing to see the use of +patience, and another thing to exercise it. To be patient amid the +turbulence, ill-tempers, and disobedience of children, and the +irregularities, carelessness and neglect of domestics, seemed a +thing impossible. I was in this state of doubt as to my ability to +exercise the virtue so much needed in my household, when Hannah came +to the door of the room where I was sitting in no very happy mood, +and notified me of some want in the kitchen in an exceedingly +provoking way. I was about replying sharply and angrily; but +suddenly checking myself, I said in a quiet, mild way, 'Very well, +Hannah. I will see that it is supplied.' + +"The girl stood for some moments, looking at me with an expression +of surprise on her face, and then walked away. This was a victory +over myself, and I felt, also, a victory over her. Not half an hour +elapsed, before, on passing near the kitchen, she said to me, in a +very respectful manner: + +"'I forgot to tell you, this morning, that the tea was all out. But +I can run round to the store and get some in a few minutes.' + +"'Do so, if you please, Hannah,' I returned, without evincing the +slightest feeling of annoyance at her neglect; 'and try, if you can, +to have tea ready precisely at six o'clock.' + +"'I will have it ready, ma'am,' she replied. And it was ready. + +"Had I not exercised patience and self-control, the interview would +have been something after this fashion: about ten minutes before +tea-time, Hannah would have come to me and said, with provoking +coolness-- + +"'The tea's all out.' + +"To which I would have replied sharply-- + +"'Why, in the name of goodness, did not you say so this morning? You +knew that you had used the last drawing! I declare you are the most +provoking creature I ever knew. You'll have to go to the store and +get some.' + +"'I'm not fit to be seen in the street,' she would in all +probability have replied. + +"And then I, losing all patience, would have soundly scolded her, +and gained nothing but a sick-headache, perhaps, for my pains. Tea, +in all probability, would have been served at about eight o'clock. +You see the difference." + +"And a very material one it is." + +"Isn't it? As you well said, there is a power in patience undreamed +of by those who seek not its exercise. Next morning, when I had any +occasion to speak to Hannah, I did so with much mildness, and if I +had occasion to find fault, requested a change rather than +enunciated a reproof. The girl changed as if by magic. She became +respectful in her manner toward me, and evinced a constant anxiety +to do every thing as I wished to have it done. Not once since have +we had a meal as much as ten minutes later than the appointed time." + +I could not but express the happiness I felt at the change, and urge +my excellent friend to persevere. This she has done, and the whole +aspect of things in her family has changed. + +There are times, however, when, from ill-health, or a return of old +states, she recedes again into fretfulness; but the reaction upon +her is so immediate and perceptible, that she is driven in +self-defence to patience and forbearance, the result of which is +order and quiet in her family just in the degree that patience and +forbearance are exercised. + + + + +AN OLD MAN'S RECOLLECTIONS. + + +"I AM not a _very_ old man," said a venerable friend to me, one day, +"yet my head has become whitened and my cheeks furrowed:--and often, +as I pause and lean upon my staff, at the corners of the streets, +the present reality gives place to dreams of the past, and I see +here, instead of the massive pile of brick and marble, the low frame +dwelling, and there, in place of the lines of tall warehouses, +humble tenements. If, in my aimless wanderings about the city, I +turn my steps towards the suburbs, I find that change, too, has been +there. I miss the woods and fields where once, with the gay +companions of early years, I spent many a summer hour. Beautiful +dwellings have sprung up, it seems to me as if by magic, where but +yesterday I plucked fruit from overladen branches, or flung myself +to rest among the tall grass or ripening grain. + +"But other changes than this have marked the passage of time. +Changes that cause them to sink into obscurity in comparison. +Thousands in our goodly city have passed from the cradle to the +grave, during the years that have been allotted to me; and thousands +have proved that all the promises of early years were vain. All +external mutations would attract but little attention, did they not +recall other and more important changes. Thought and feeling have +put on forms, as new and strange, but not, alas! so full of happy +indications. Prosperity has crowned the toil and enterprise of our +citizens; but how few of the many who were prosperous when I was in +my prime are among the wealthy now! How few of the families that +filled the circles of fashion then, have left any of their scattered +members to grace the glittering circles now! The wheel of fortune +has ceased not its revolutions for a moment. Hopes that once spread +their gay leaves to the pleasant airs have been blighted and +scattered by the chilling winds of adversity. + +"Pausing and leaning upon my staff, as I have said, I often muse +thus, when some object recalls the memory of one and another who +have finished their course and been gathered to their fathers. In +every city and village, wherever there is human life, with its evil +passions and good affections, there are histories to stir the heart +and unseal the fountains of tears. Truth, it is said, is strange, +stranger than fiction; and never was there a truer sentiment +uttered. In all the fictions that I have read, nothing has met my +eye so strange and heart-stirring as the incidents in real life that +have transpired in the families of some of our own citizens. Any +one, of years and observation, in any city, will bear a like +testimony. The circumstance of their actual occurrence, and the fact +that the present reality diminishes, from many causes, our surprise +at events, tend to make us think lightly of what is going on around +us. And, besides this, we ordinarily see only the surface of +society. The writer of fiction unveils the mind and heart of those +he brings into action, and we see all. We perceive their thoughts +and feel their emotions. But, if we could look into the bosoms of +those we meet daily, and read there the hopes and fears that excite +or depress, we should perceive all around us living histories of +human passion and emotion that would awaken up our most active +sympathies. All this, however, is hidden from our eyes. And it is +only, in most instances, when the present becomes the past, that we +are permitted to lift the veil, and look at the reality beneath." + +We were sitting near a window overlooking one of the principal +streets of our city, and a slight noise without, at this time, +attracted our attention. + +"There she is again. Poor Flora! How my heart aches for you!" my +companion suddenly ejaculated, in a tone of deep sympathy, after +gazing into the street for a moment or two. + +"Who is it?" I asked. + +"Do you see that poor creature, slowly moving along just opposite?" + +"Yes." + +"Twenty years ago, there was not a gayer girl in the city; nor one +more truly beloved by all." + +"She?" + +"Yes. Nor one of fairer hopes." + +"Hope has indeed sadly mocked her!" said I, giving almost +involuntary utterance to the thought that instantly passed through +my mind. Just then I caught a glimpse of her face, that was partly +turned towards us. Though marked by disease and sorrow, it was yet +no common face. It still bore traces of womanly beauty, that no eye +could mistake. + +"Poor Flora! what a history of disappointed hopes and crushed +affections is thine! What a lesson for the young, the thoughtless, +the innocent!" the old man said, as he retired from the window. + +"Who is she?" I asked, after a brief pause. + +"You have seen that beautiful old mansion that stands in--street, +just above--?" + +"Yes." + +"It is now used as an extensive boarding-house; but in my younger +days, it was one of the most princely establishments in the city. It +then stood alone, and had attached to it beautifully laid-out +grounds, stocked with the rarest and richest plants, all in the +highest state of cultivation. No American workman could produce +furniture good enough for its aristocratic owner. Every thing was +bought in Paris, and upon the most extensive scale. And truly, the +internal arrangement of Mr. T--'s dwelling was magnificent, almost +beyond comparison at the time." + +"And was that the daughter of Mr. T--?" I asked, in surprise. + +"Yes, that was Flora T--," the old man said, in a voice that had +in it an expression of sad feeling, evidently conjured up by the +reminiscence. + +"You knew her in her better days?" + +"As well as I knew my own sister. She was one of the gentlest of her +sex. No one could meet her without loving her." + +"She married badly?" + +"Yes. That tells the whole secret of her present wretched condition. +Alas! how many a sweet girl have I seen dragged down, by a union +with some worthless wretch, undeserving the name of a man! There is +scarcely a wealthy family in our city, into which some such an one +has not insinuated himself, destroying the peace of all, and +entailing hopeless misery upon one all unfit to bear her changed +lot. The case of Flora is an extreme one. Her husband turned out to +be a drunkard, and her father's family became reduced in +circumstances, and finally every member of it either passed from +this world, or sank into a state of indigence, little above that of +her own. But the worst feature in this history of wretchedness is +the fact, that Flora, in sinking so low externally, lost that sweet +spirit of innocence which once gave a tone of so much loveliness to +her character. Her husband not only debased her condition, but +corrupted her mind. Oh, what a wreck she has become!" + +"How few families there are," said I, after a few moments, "as you +have justly remarked, the happiness of which has not been destroyed +by the marriage of a much loved and fondly cherished daughter and +sister, to one all unworthy of the heart whose best affections had +been poured out upon him like water." + +"The misery arising from this cause," the old man said, "is +incalculable. Nor does it always show itself in the extreme external +changes that have marked Flora T--'s sad history. I could take you +to many houses, fine houses too, and richly arrayed within, where +hearts are breaking in the iron grasp of a husband's unfeeling hand, +that contracts with a slow, torturing cruelty, keeping its victim +lingering day after day, week after week, month after month, and +year after year, looking and longing for the hour when the deep +quiet of the grave shall bring peace--sweet peace." + + * * * * * + +"As I thus look back through a period of some twenty, thirty, and +forty years," continued the old man, "noting the changes that have +taken place, and counting over the hopes that have been given like +chaff to the winds, I feel sad. And yet, amid all this change and +disappointment, there is much to stir the heart with feelings of +pleasure. A single instance I will relate: + +"A very intimate friend, a merchant, had three daughters, to whom he +gave an education the best that could be obtained. When the eldest +was but twenty, and the youngest fourteen, Mr. W-- failed in +business. Every thing passed from his hands, and he was left +entirely penniless. Well advanced in years, with his current of +thoughts, from long habit, going steadily in one way, this shock +almost entirely prostrated him. He could not find courage to explain +to his daughters his condition, and the change that awaited them. +But they loved their father too well not to perceive that something +was wrong. Suspecting the true cause, the eldest, unknown to him, +waited upon one of his clerks at his residence, and received from +him a full statement of her father's affairs. She begged that +nothing might be concealed; and so obtained all the information that +the clerk could give, from which she saw plainly that the family +would be entirely broken up, and worse than all, perhaps scattered, +the children from their father. + +"On returning home, she took her younger sisters, and fully +explained to them the gloomy prospect in view. Then she explained to +them her plan, by which the force of the storm might be broken. In +it they all gladly acquiesced. This plan, they proceeded, unknown to +their father, to put into execution. + +"It was about one week after, that the old man came home so much +troubled in mind that he was compelled to leave the tea-table, his +food untasted. As he arose, his children arose also, and followed +him into the parlours. + +"'Dear father!' said the eldest, coming up to his side, and drawing +her arm around his neck--'do not be troubled. We know it all, and +are prepared for the worst.' + +"'Know what, my child?' he asked in surprise. + +"'Know that our condition is changed. And know more--that we are +prepared to meet that change with brave, true hearts.' + +"The tears came into the daughter's eyes as she said this--not tears +for her changed prospect--but tears for her father. + +"'And we are all prepared to meet it,' broke in the other two, +gathering around the old man. + +"'God bless you, my children!' Mr. W-- murmured, with a voice +choked with emotion. 'But, you know not how low you have fallen. I +am a beggar!' + +"'Not quite,' was the now smiling reply of his eldest child. 'We +learned it all--and at once determined that we would do our part. +For two weeks, we have been out among our friends, and freely +related our plans and the reason for adopting them. The result is, +we obtained forty scholars to a school we have determined to open, +for teaching music, French, drawing, &c. You are not a beggar, dear +father! And never shall be, while you have three daughters to love +you!' + +"The old man's feelings gave way, and he wept like a child. He could +not object to the proposition of his children. The school was at +once opened, and is still conducted by the two youngest. It proved a +means of ample support to the family. To some men, the fact that +their children had been compelled to resort to daily labour, in any +calling, for a support, would have been deeply humiliating. Not so +to Mr. W--. That evidence of his daughters' love to him +compensated for all the changes which circumstances, uncontrolled by +himself, had effected." + + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Home Scenes, and Home Influence, by T. S. 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Arthur + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4629] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on February 20, 2002] + +Project Gutenberg's Home Scenes, and Home Influence, by T.S. Arthur +*******This file should be named hmsnh10.txt or hmsnh10.zip******* + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, hmsnh11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, hmsnh10a.txt + +This etext was created by Charles Aldarondo (Aldarondo@yahoo.com) + + +Project Gutenberg Etexts are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep etexts in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +The "legal small print" and other information about this book +may now be found at the end of this file. Please read this +important information, as it gives you specific rights and +tells you about restrictions in how the file may be used. + + + + + + + + + + +HOME SCENES, AND HOME INFLUENCE. + +A Series of Tales and Sketches. + +T. S. ARTHUR. + +PHILADELPHIA: + +1854. + + + + + + +PREFACE. + +MANY of the scenes presented in this volume are such as show the +mother's influence with her children; a few include the marriage +relation; and a few give other domestic pictures. In all will be +found, we trust, motives for self-denial and right action in the +various conditions of social life. Home is the centre of good as +well as of bad influence. How much, then, depends on those to whom +have been committed the sacred trust of giving to the home-circle +its true power over the heart! + +This volume makes the fifth in "ARTHUR'S LIBRARY FOR THE HOUSEHOLD." + + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + + + +TAKING COMFORT. +CHILDREN--A FAMILY SCENE. +LOSING ONE'S TEMPER. +TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS. +HAVEN'T THE CHANGE. +OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN. +THE MOTHER AND BOY. +THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. +IS SHE A LADY? +GOING INTO MOURNING. +IF THAT WERE MY CHILD. +I WILL! +A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. +THE POWER OF PATIENCE. +AN OLD MAN'S RECOLLECTIONS. + + + + + + +HOME SCENES. + +TAKING COMFORT. + + + + + +"REALLY, this is comfortable!" said I, glancing around the +handsomely furnished parlour of my young friend Brainard, who had, a +few weeks before, ventured upon matrimony, and was now making his +first experiments in housekeeping. + +"Yes, it is comfortable," replied my friend. "The fact is, I go in +for comforts." + +"I'm afraid George is a little extravagant," said the smiling bride, +as she leaned towards her husband and looked tenderly into his face. + +"No, not extravagant, Anna," he returned; "all I want is to have +things comfortable. Comfort I look upon as one of the necessaries of +life, to which all are entitled. Don't you?" + +I was looking at a handsome new rose-wood piano when this question +was addressed to me, and thinking about its probable cost. + +"We should all make the best of what we have," I answered, a little +evasively; "and seek to be as comfortable as possible under all +circumstances." + +"Exactly. That's my doctrine," said Brainard. "I'm not rich, and +therefore don't expect to live in a palace, and have every thing +around me glittering with silver and gold; but, out of the little I +possess, shall endeavour to obtain the largest available dividend of +comfort. Ain't I right?" + +"Perhaps so." + +"You speak coldly," said my friend. "Don't you agree with me? Should +not every man try to be as comfortable as his means will permit?" + +"Yes, certainly." + +"Of course he should. Some men set a value upon money above every +thing else, and sacrifice all comfort to its accumulation; but I +don't belong to that class. Money is a good gift, because it is the +means of procuring natural blessings. I receive it thankfully, and +use it wisely. You see how I am beginning life." + +"I do." + +"Well, what do you think of it?" + +By this time my observation of things had become more particular, +and I saw many evidences of expenditures that indicated a lavish +spirit. + +"What rent do you pay?" I asked. + +"Three hundred." + +I shook my head. + +"Too much?" said Brainard. + +"I think so." + +"Perhaps it is a little high. But you can't get a genteel, +comfortable house, in a good neighbourhood, for any thing less." + +As it was my first visit to the young couple, who were but a few +weeks past their honey-moon, I did not feel like questioning the +propriety of my friend's conduct to the serious extent he was about +involving himself; and so evaded replying to this excuse for taking +at least a hundred dollars more rent upon himself than he was +justified in doing by his circumstances, he being simply a clerk, +with a salary of one thousand dollars. + +"Rents are high," was my apparently indifferent answer. + +"Too high," said he. "A man who wants a pleasant house has to pay +for it. This is my experience." + +The subject of conversation changed; I passed an agreeable evening; +at the close of which I left my friend and his lovely young bride in +their comfortable home. + +What I had seen and heard during the few hours spent with Brainard +made me fear that he was about committing a too common error. His +ideas of comfort were not in keeping with his circumstances. Some +days subsequently I saw my friend and his wife riding out in a +handsome vehicle, drawn by a gay horse. + +"Taking their comfort," said I, as I paused and looked upon the +happy young couple. + +Not long after, I saw them dashing off again to enjoy an afternoon's +ride. Next, I met them at a fashionable concert. + +"Have you been to the opera yet?" asked Brainard, leaning forward to +the seat that I occupied just in front of him. + +"No," was my answer. + +"Then there is a treat in store for you. We go twice, and sometimes +oftener, every week. Truffi, Benedetti, Rosi--oh! they are +enchanting." + +"Rather expensive," said I. + +"It does cost something," and Brainard shrugged his shoulders. "But +I think it's money well spent. You know that I go in for the +comforts of life." + +And he leaned back, while I thought I perceived a slight shadow flit +across his face. A singer came forward at the moment, and no more +was said. + +"It is possible," thought I, "in seeking after comfort, to get into +the wrong road. I am afraid my young friends are about committing +this error." + +I not only suggested as much to Brainard soon afterwards, but +actually presented a serious remonstrance against the course of life +he had adopted. But he only smiled at the fears I expressed, and +said he understood perfectly the nature of the ground he was +treading. Thus it is with most young persons. Be their views true or +false, they act upon them, in spite of all counsel from the more +experienced, and in the end reap their harvest of trouble or +pleasure, as the ease may be. Pride, which stimulates the desire to +make a certain appearance in the world, is generally more at fault +than a wish to secure the comforts of which my friend talked so +much. + +I had another acquaintance, by the name of Tyler, who was married +about the same time with Brainard. His tastes were as well +cultivated as those of the former, and his income was as large; yet, +in beginning the world, he had shown more prudence and a wise +forecast. I found him in a small, neat house, at a rent of one +hundred and seventy dollars. His furniture was not costly, but in +good taste and keeping with the house and his circumstances. As for +real comfort, as far as I could see, the preponderance was rather in +his favour. + +"This is really comfortable," said I, glancing around the room in +which he received me on the occasion of my first visit. + +"We think so," replied my friend, smiling. + +"Nothing very elegant, but as good as we can afford, and with that +we have made up our minds to be content." + +"If all the world were as wise, all the world would be happier," I +remarked. + +"Perhaps so," returned Tyler. "Brainard tried to get me into a house +like the one he occupies; but I thought it more prudent to cut my +garment according to my cloth. The larger your house, the more +costly your furniture and the higher your regular expenses. He +talked about having things comfortable, as he called it, and +enjoying life as he went along; but it would be poor comfort for me +to know that I was five or six hundred dollars in debt, and all the +while living beyond my income." + +"In debt? What do you mean by that?" said I. "It isn't possible that +Brainard has gone in debt for any of his fine furniture?" + +"It is very possible." + +"To the extent of five or six hundred dollars?" + +"Yes. The rose-wood piano he bought for his wife cost four hundred +dollars. It was purchased on six months' credit." + +"Foolish young man!" said I. + +"You may well say that. He thinks a great deal about the comforts of +life; but he is going the wrong way to secure them, in my opinion. +His parlour furniture, including the new piano, cost nearly one +thousand dollars; mine cost three hundred; and I'm sure I would not +exchange comforts with him. It isn't what is around us so much as +what is within us, that produces pleasure. A contented mind is said +to be a continual feast. If, in seeking to have things comfortable, +we create causes of disquietude, we defeat our own ends." + +"I wish our friend Brainard could see things in the same light," +said I. + +"Nothing but painful experience will open his eyes," remarked Tyler. + +And he was correct in this. Brainard continued to take his comfort +for a few months, although there was a gradual sinking in the +thermometer of his feelings as the time approached when the notes +given for a part of his furniture would fall due. The amount of +these notes was six hundred dollars, but he had not saved fifty +towards meeting the payments. The whole of his income had been used +in taking his comfort. + +"Why, Brainard!" said I, in a tone of surprise, on meeting him one +day, nearly six months after his marriage. "What has happened?" + +"Happened? Nothing. Why do you ask?" replied the young man. + +"You look troubled." + +"Do I?" He made an effort to smile. + +"Yes, you certainly do. What has gone wrong with you?" + +"Oh, nothing." And he tried to assume an air of indifference; but, +seeing me look incredulous, he added-- + +"Nothing particularly wrong. I'm only a little worried about money +matters. The fact is, I've got two or three notes to pay next week." + +"You have?" + +"Yes; and what is more, I haven't the means to lift them." + +"That is trouble," said I, shaking my head. + +"It's trouble for me. Oh, dear! I wish my income were larger. A +thousand dollars a year is too little." + +"Two persons ought to live on that sum very comfortably," I +remarked. + +"We can't, then; and I'm sure we are not extravagant. Ah, me!" + +"I spent the evening with our friend Tyler last week," said I. "His +salary is the same as yours, and he told me that he found it not +only sufficient for all his wants, but that he could lay by a couple +of hundred dollars yearly." + +"I couldn't live as he does," said Brainard, a little impatiently. + +"Why not?" + +"Do you think I would be cooped up in such a pigeon-box of a place?" + +"The house he lives in has six rooms, and he has but three in +family--your own number, I presume"-- + +"I have four," said Brainard, interrupting me. + +"Four?" + +"Yes. We have a cook and chambermaid." + +"Oh! Mrs. Tyler has but one domestic." + +"My wife wasn't brought up to be a household drudge," said Brainard, +contemptuously. + +"Your house has ten rooms in it, I believe?" said I, avoiding a +reply to his last remark. + +"It has." + +"But why should you pay rent for ten rooms, when you have use for +only five or six? Is not that a waste of money that might be applied +to a better purpose?" + +"Oh, I like a large house," said my friend, tossing his head, and +putting on an air of dignity and consequence. "A hundred dollars +difference in rent is a small matter compared with the increase of +comfort it brings." + +"But the expense doesn't stop with the additional rent," said I. + +"Why not?" + +"The larger the house, the more expensive the furniture. It cost you +a thousand dollars to fit up your handsome parlour?" said I. + +"Yes, I presume it did." + +"For what amount did you give your notes?" + +"For six hundred dollars." + +"On account of furniture?" + +"Yes." + +"Tyler furnished his parlour for three hundred." + +There was another gesture of impatience on the part of my young +friend, as he said-- + +"And such furnishing!" + +"Every thing looks neat and comfortable," I replied. + +"It may do for them, but it wouldn't suit us." + +"Whatever is accordant with our means should be made to suit us," +said I, seriously. "You are no better off than Tyler." + +"Do you think I could content myself in such a place?" he replied. + +"Contentment is only found in the external circumstances that +correspond to a man's pecuniary ability," was my answer to this. +"Which, think you, is best contented? Tyler, in a small house, +neatly furnished, and with a hundred dollars in his pocket; or you, +in your large house, with a debt of six hundred dollars hanging over +you?" + +There was an instant change in my friend's countenance. The question +seemed to startle him. He sighed, involuntarily. + +"But all this won't lift my notes," said he, after the silence of a +few minutes. "Good morning!" + +Poor fellow! I felt sorry for him. He had been buying comfort at +rather too large a price. + +The more Brainard cast about in his mind for the means of lifting +his notes, the more troubled did he become. + +"I might borrow," said he to himself; "but how am I to pay back the +sum?" + +To borrow, however, was better than to let his notes be dishonoured. +So Brainard, as the time of payment drew nearer and nearer, made an +effort to get from his friends the amount of money needed. + +But the effort was not successful. Some looked surprised when he +spoke of having notes to meet; others ventured a little good advice +on the subject of prudence in young men who are beginning the world, +and hinted that he was living rather too fast. None were prepared to +give him what he wanted. + +Troubled, mortified, and humbled, Brainard retired to his +comfortable home on the evening before the day on which his note +given for the piano was to fall due. Nearly his last effort to raise +money had been made, and he saw nothing but discredit, and what he +feared even worse than that before him. Involved as he was in debt, +there was no safety from the sharp talons of the law. They might +strike him at any moment, and involve all in ruin. + +Poor Brainard! How little pleasure did the sight of his large and +pleasant house give him as it came in view on his return home. It +stood, rather as a monument of extravagance and folly, than the +abode of sweet contentment. + +"Three hundred dollars rent!" he murmured. "Too much for me to pay." +And sighed deeply. + +He entered his beautiful parlour, and gazed around upon the elegant +furniture which he had provided as a means of comfort. All had lost +its power to communicate pleasure. There stood the costly piano, +once coveted and afterwards admired. But it possessed no charm to +lay the troubled spirit within him. He had bought it as a marriage +present for his wife, who had little taste for music, and preferred +reading or sewing to the blandishment of sweet sounds. And for this +toy--it was little more in his family--a debt of four hundred +dollars had been created. Had it brought him an equivalent in +comfort? Far, very far from it. + +As Brainard stood in his elegant parlour, with troubled heart and +troubled face, his wife came in with a light step. + +"George!" she exclaimed on seeing him, her countenance falling and +her voice expressing anxious concern. "What is the matter? Are you +sick?" + +"Oh, no!" he replied, affecting a lightness of tone. + +"But something is the matter, George," said the young wife, as she +laid her hand upon him and looked earnestly into his face. +"Something troubles you." + +"Nothing of any consequence. A mere trifle," returned Brainard, +evasively. + +"A mere trifle would not cloud your brow as it was clouded a moment +since, George." + +"Trifles sometimes affect us, more seriously than graver matters." +As Brainard said this, the shadows again deepened on his face. + +"If you have any troubles, dear, let me share them, and they will be +lighter." Anna spoke with much tenderness. + +"I hardly think your sharing my present trouble will lighten it," +said Brainard, forcing a smile, "unless, in so doing, you can put +some four hundred dollars into my empty pockets." + +Anna withdrew a pace from her husband, and looked at him doubtingly. + +"Do you speak in earnest?" said she. + +"In very truth I do. To-morrow I have four hundred dollars to pay; +but where the money is to come from, is more than I can tell." + +"How in the world has that happened?" inquired Mrs. Brainard. + +Involuntarily the eyes of her husband wandered towards the piano. +She saw their direction. Her own eyes fell to the floor, and she +stood silent for some moments--silent, but hurriedly thoughtful. +Then looking up, she said, in a hesitating voice-- + +"We can do without that." And she pointed towards the piano. + +"Without what?" asked Brainard, quickly. + +"The piano. It cost four hundred dollars. Sell it." + +"Never!" + +"Why not?" + +"Don't mention it, Anna. Sell your piano! It shall never be done." + +"But, George"-- + +"It's no use to talk of that, Anna; I will not listen to it." + +And so the wife was silenced. + +Little comfort had the young couple that evening in their finely +furnished house. Brainard was silent and thoughtful, while Anna felt +the pressure of a heavy weight upon her feelings. + +How different was it in the smaller and more plainly attired +dwelling of Tyler! There was comfort, and there were peace and +contentment, her smiling handmaids. + +On the next morning, Brainard found it impossible to conceal from +his wife the great anxiety he felt. She said very little to him, for +his trouble was of a kind for which she could suggest no remedy. +After he parted with her at the door, she returned and sat down in +one of the parlours to think. The piano was before her, and back to +that her thoughts at length came. It was not only a beautiful +instrument, but one of great excellence. Often had it been admired +by her friends, and particularly by a lady who had several times +expressed a wish to own one exactly like it in every respect. + +"I wish you would let me have that piano," the lady had said to her +not a week before; and said it as much in earnest as in jest. + +"I wonder if she really would buy it?" mused Mrs. Brainard. "I don't +want so fine an instrument. My old piano is a very good one, and is +useless at father's. Oh! if I could only get George the four hundred +dollars he wants so badly!" + +And she struck her hands together as her thoughts grew earnest on +the subject. For more than an hour the mind of Mrs. Brainard gave +itself up to this one idea. Then she dressed herself and went out. +Without consulting any one, she called upon the lady to whom +reference has been made. + +"Mrs. Aiken," said she, coming at once to the point, "you have often +remarked that you would like to own that piano of mine. Were you +really in earnest?" + +"In earnest? Certainly I was." Mrs. Aiken smiled, at the same time +that a slight expression of surprise came into her face. "It's one +of the finest instruments I ever touched." + +"It's for sale," said Mrs. Brainard, in a firm, business-like way. +"So there is a chance for you to call it your own." + +"For sale! Why do you say that, Anna?" + +"It's too costly an instrument for me to own. My old piano is a very +good one--quite good enough for all my purposes." + +"But this is your husband's wedding-gift, if I remember rightly?" + +"I know it is; but the gift was too costly a one for a young man +whose salary is only a thousand dollars a year." + +"Then he wishes to sell it." + +"No, indeed, not he!" + +"And would you sell it without consulting him?" said Mrs. Aiken. + +"Such is my intention." + +"He might be very much displeased." + +"No matter; I would soon smooth his frowning brow. But, Mrs. Aiken, +we won't discuss that matter. The instrument is to be sold. Do you +want it?" + +"I do." + +"Very well. Are you prepared to buy it?" + +"Perhaps so. It cost four hundred dollars?" + +"Yes." + +"What is your price?" + +"The same." + +"Then you make no deduction?" said Mrs. Aiken, smiling. + +"I wouldn't like to do that. It's as good as new. If I can sell it, +I want to be able to put in my husband's hands just what he paid for +it." + +"Oh, then you want the money for your husband?" + +"Certainly, I do. What use have I for four hundred dollars?" + +"You've come just in time, Anna," said Mrs. Aiken. "I arranged with +my husband to meet him this morning, at his store, to go and look at +some pianos. But if yours is really for sale, we have no occasion to +take any further trouble." + +"It is for sale, Mrs. Aiken. Understand this." + +"Very well. When do you want the money?" + +"This morning." + +"I don't know about that. However, I will see Mr. Aiken +immediately." + +"Shall I wait here for you?" + +"You may do so, or I will call at your house." + +"Do that, if you please." + +"Very well. In an hour, at most, I will see you." + +The two ladies then parted. + +When Mr. Brainard left his house that morning, he felt wretched. +Where--how was he to get four hundred dollars? To go to the party +from whom he had bought the piano, and confess that he was not able +to pay for it, had in it something so humiliating, that he could not +bear the thought for a moment. But if the note was not paid,--what +then? Might not the instrument be demanded? And how could he give it +up now? Or, worse, might it not be seized under execution? + +"Oh, that I had never bought it!" he at length exclaimed, mentally, +in the bitterness of his feelings. And then he half chid himself for +the extorted declaration. + +Nearly the whole of the morning was spent in the vain attempt to +borrow the needed sum. But there was no one to lend him four hundred +dollars. At length, in his desperation, he forced himself to apply +for a quarter's advance of salary. + +"No doubt," said he, within himself, "that the holder of the note +will take two hundred and fifty dollars on account, and give me time +on the balance." + +About the ways and means of living for the next three months, after +absorbing his salary in advance, he did not pause to think. He was +just in that state of mind in which he could say, with feeling, +"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Unhappily, his effort +to raise money by this expedient failed. His application was +received coldly, and in a way to mortify him exceedingly. + +Half desperate, and half despairing, Brainard started for his home +about one o'clock, his usual hour for dining. What was he to do? He +turned his thoughts to the right and to the left, groping about like +a man in the dark. But no light broke in upon his mental vision. + +"It will not do to meet Anna in this way," said he, as he approached +his own door. "I left her with a troubled countenance in the +morning. Now I must force an assumed cheerfulness." + +He entered, and was moving along the passage, when Anna came out +through one of the parlour doors to meet him, and drawing her arm +through his, said, in a lively tone,-- + +"Come, George, I want to play for you a favourite piece. I've been +practising it for the last hour." + +And she drew him into the parlour, and, taking her seat at the +piano, commenced running her fingers over the keys. Brainard stood +and listened to the music until the piece was finished, trying, but +in vain, to feel an interest in the performance. + +"How do you like that?" said the wife, with animation, lifting her +sparkling eyes to the face of her husband, which was serious, in +spite of all he could do to give it a better expression. + +"Beautifully performed," replied Brainard. + +"And do you really think so?" said Anna, as she arose and leaning on +his arm again, drew him into the next room. + +"Certainly, I do." + +"Didn't you think the instrument a little out of tune?" asked Anna. + +"No; it struck me as being in better tune than when you played last +evening." + +"It's a fine instrument, certainly. I prize it very much." + +Brainard sighed faintly. + +"Oh! How about your four hundred dollars?" said Anna, as if the +thought had just occurred to her. "Did you get the money?" + +A change was apparent in the manner of Brainard. + +"No, Anna," he replied, with assumed calmness. + +"Do you want it badly?" + +"Yes, dear. I have four hundred dollars due in the bank to-day, and +every effort to obtain the sum has failed." + +"What if I lend it to you?" said the young wife, looking archly into +his troubled face. + +"You!" he exclaimed, quickly. + +"Yes, me. Would you take it as a very great favour?" + +"The greatest you could do me just at this time!" + +"Very well; here is the money." + +And Anna drew a purse of gold from her pocket, and held it before +his eyes. + +"Anna! What does this mean?" + +And Brainard reached his hand to grasp the welcome treasure. But she +drew it away quickly, saying, as she did so,-- + +"Certain conditions must go with the loan." + +"Name them," was promptly answered by the husband, into whose face +the sunshine had already come back. + +"One is, that you are not to be angry with me for any thing that I +have done to-day." + +"What have you done?" + +And Brainard glanced around the room with an awakened suspicion. + +"I want your promise first." + +"You have it." + +"But mind you, I am in earnest," said Anna. + +"So am I. Now make your confession." + +"I sold the piano." + +"What?" + +There was an instant change in the expression of Brainard's face. + +"Your promise. Remember," said Anna, in a warning voice. + +"Sold the piano!" + +And he walked into the next room, Anna moving by his side. + +"Yes, I sold it to Mrs. Aiken for four hundred dollars. I had my old +instrument brought over from father's. This is as good a piano as I +want, or you either, I should think, seeing that you perceived no +difference in its tones from the one I parted with. Now, take this +purse, and if you don't call me the right sort of a wife you are a +very strange man--that is all I have to say." + +Surprise kept Brainard silent for some moments. He looked at the +piano, then at his wife, and then at the purse of gold, half +doubting whether all were real, or only a pleasant dream. + +"You are the right sort of a wife, Anna, and no mistake," said he, +at length, drawing his arm around her neck and kissing her. "You +have done what I had not the courage to do, and, in the act, saved +me from a world of trouble. The truth is, I never should have bought +that piano. A clerk, with a salary of only a thousand dollars, is +not justified in expending four hundred dollars for a piano." + +"Nor in having so much costly furniture," said Anna, glancing round +the room. + +Brainard sighed, for the thought of two hundred dollars yet to pay +flitted through his mind. + +"Nor in paying three hundred dollars for rent," added Anna. + +"Why do you say that?" asked Brainard. + +"Because it's the truth. The fact is, George, I'm afraid we're in +the wrong road for comfort." + +"Perhaps we are," was the young man's constrained admission. + +"Then the quicker we get into the right way the better. Don't you +think so?" + +"If we, are wrong, we should try to get right," said Brainard. + +"It was wrong to buy that piano. This is your own admission." + +"Well?" + +"We are right again in that respect." + +"Yes, thanks to my dear wife's good resolution and prompt action." + +"It was wrong to take so costly a house," said Anna. + +"I couldn't find a cheaper one that was genteel and comfortable." + +"I'm sure I wouldn't ask any thing more genteel and comfortable than +Mrs. Tyler's house." + +"That pigeon-box!" + +Brainard spoke in, a tone of contempt. + +"Why, George, how you talk! It's a perfect gem of a house, well +built and well finished in every part, and big enough for a family +twice as large as ours. I think it far more comfortable than this +great barn of a place, and would a thousand times rather live in it. +And then it is cheaper by a hundred and twenty dollars a year." + +A hundred and twenty dollars! What a large sum of money. Ah, if he +had a hundred and twenty dollars in addition to the four hundred +received from Anna, how happy he would be! These were the thoughts +that were flitting through the mind of Brainard at the mention of +the amount that could be saved by taking a smaller house. + +"Well, Anna, perhaps you are right. Oh, dear!" + +"Why do you sigh so heavily, George?" asked Mrs. Brainard, looking +at her husband with some surprise. + +"Because I can't help it," was frankly answered. + +"You've got the money you needed?" + +"Not all." + +"Why, George! Didn't you say that you had only four hundred dollars +to pay?" + +"I didn't say only." + +"How much more?" + +"The fact is, Anna, I have two hundred dollars yet to meet." + +"To-day?" + +Anna's face became troubled. + +"No, not until the day after to-morrow." + +The young wife's countenance lighted up again. + +"Is that all?" + +"Yes, thank Heaven, that is all. But how the payment is to be made, +is more than I can tell." + +Dinner was now announced. + +"I shall have to turn financier again," said Anna, smiling, as she +drew her arm within that of her husband, and led him away to the +dining-room. + +"I'm a little afraid of your financiering," returned her husband, +shaking his head. "You might sell me next as a useless piece of +furniture." + +"Now, George, that is too bad," replied Anna, looking hurt. + +"I only jested, dear," said Brainard, repairing the little wrong +done to her feelings with a kiss. "Your past efforts at financiering +were admirable, and I only hope your next attempt may be as +successful." + +Two days more passed, during which time neither Brainard nor his +wife said any thing to each other about money, although the thoughts +of both were busy for most of the time on that interesting subject. +Silently sat Brainard at the breakfast-table on the morning of the +day when his last note fell due. How was he to meet the payment? Two +hundred dollars! He had not so much as fifty dollars in his +possession, and as to borrowing, that was a vain hope. Must he go to +the holder of the note, and ask a renewal? He shrunk from the +thought, murmuring to himself--"Any thing but that." + +As for getting the required sum through Anna, he did not permit +himself to hope very strongly. She had looked thoughtful since their +last interview on the subject, and at times, it seemed to him, +troubled. It was plain that she had been disappointed in any efforts +to get money that she might have made. + +"That she, too, should be subject to mortification and painful +humiliation!" said he, as his mind dwelt on the subject. "It is too +bad--too bad!--Oh, to think that my folly should have had this +reaction!" + +Anna looked sober as Brainard parted with her after breakfast, and +he thought he saw tears in her eyes. As soon as he was gone she +dressed herself, and taking from a handsome jewel-box the present of +her husband, a gold watch and chain, a bracelet, diamond pin, and +some other articles of the same kind, left the house. + +Two hours afterward, as Brainard sat at his desk trying to fix his +mind upon the accounts before him, a note was handed in bearing his +address. He broke the seal, and found that it enclosed one hundred +and seventy dollars, with these few words from Anna: + +"This is the best I can do for you, dear husband. Will it be +enough?" + +"God bless her!" came half audibly from the lips of Brainard, as he +drew forth his pocket-book, in which were thirty dollars. "Yes, it +will be enough." + +"There is no comfort in owing, or in paying after this fashion," +said the young man to himself, as he walked homeward at dinner-time, +with his last note in his pocket. "There will have to be a change." + +And there was a change. When next I visited my young friend, I found +him in a smaller house, looking as comfortable and happy as I could +have wished to see him. We talked pleasantly about the errors of the +past, and the trouble which had followed as a natural result. + +"There is one thing," said Brainard, during the conversation, +glancing at his wife as he spoke, "that I have not been able to make +out." + +"What is that?" asked Mrs. Brainard, smiling. + +"Where the last one hundred and seventy dollars you gave me came +from." + +"Have you missed nothing?" said she, archly. + +"Nothing," was his reply. + +"Been deprived of no comfort?" + +"So far from it, I have found a great many new ones." + +"And been saved the trouble of winding up and regulating that pretty +eight-day clock for which you gave forty dollars." + +Brainard fairly started to his feet as he turned to the mantel, and, +strange to say, missed, for the first time, the handsome timepiece +referred to by his wife. + +"Why, Anna, is it possible? Surely that hasn't been gone for two +months!" + +"Oh, yes, it has." + +"Well, that beats all." + +And Brainard resumed his chair. + +"You've been just as comfortable," said the excellent young woman. + +"But you didn't get a hundred and seventy dollars for the +timepiece?" + +"No. Have you lost no other comfort? Think." + +Brainard thought, but in vain. Anna glided from the room, and +returned in a few moments with her jewel-box. + +"Do you miss any thing?" said she, as she raised the lid and placed +the box in his hands. + +"Your watch and chain!" + +Anna smiled. + +"You did not sell them?" + +"Yes." + +"Why, Anna! Did you set no value on your husband's gifts?" + +There was a slight rebuke in the tone of Brainard. Tears sprang to +Anna's eyes, as she answered--"I valued them less than his +happiness." + +Brainard looked at her for a few moments with an expression of deep +tenderness. Then turning to me, he said, in a voice that was +unsteady from emotion--"You shall be my judge. Has she done wrong or +right?" + +"Right!" I responded, warmly. "Right! thank Heaven, my friend, for +giving you a true woman for a wife. There is some hope now of your +finding the comfort you sought so vainly in the beginning." + +And he has found it--found it in a wise appropriation, of the good +gifts of Providence according to his means. + + + + + + +CHILDREN--A FAMILY SCENE. + + + + + +"MOTHER!" + +"As I was saying"-- + +"Mother!" + +"Miss Jones wore a white figured satin"-- + +"Oh! mother!" + +"With short sleeves"-- + +"Mother! mother!" + +"Looped up with a small rosebud"-- + +"I say! mother! mother!" + +The child now caught hold of her mother's arm, and shook it +violently, in her effort to gain the attention she desired, while +her voice, which at first was low, had become loud and impatient. +Mrs. Elder, no longer able to continue her account of the manner in +which Miss Jones appeared at a recent ball, turned angrily toward +little Mary, whose importunities had sadly annoyed her, and, seizing +her by the arm, took her to the door and thrust her roughly from the +room, without any inquiry as to what she wanted. The child screamed +for a while at the door, and then went crying up-stairs. + +"Do what you will," said Mrs. Elder, fretfully, "you cannot teach +children manners. I've talked to Mary a hundred times about +interrupting me when I'm engaged in conversation with any one." + +"It's line upon line and precept upon precept," remarked the (sic) +visiter. "Children are children, and we mustn't expect too much from +them." + +"But I see other people's children sit down quietly and behave +themselves when there is company." + +"All children are not alike," said the (sic) visiter. Some are more +restless and impetuous than others. We have to consult their +dispositions and pay regard thereto, or it will be impossible to +manage them rightly. I find a great difference among my own +children. Some are orderly, and others disorderly. Some have a +strong sense of propriety, and others no sense of propriety at all." + +"It's a great responsibility; is it not, Mrs. Peters?" + +"Very great." + +"It makes me really unhappy. I am sometimes tempted to wish them all +in heaven; and then I would be sure they were well off and well +taken care of. Some people appear to get along with their children +so easy. I don't know how it is. I can't." + +Mrs. Peters could have given her friend a useful hint or two on the +subject of managing children, if she had felt that she dared to do +so. But she knew Mrs. Elder to be exceedingly sensitive, and +therefore she thought it best not to say any thing that might offend +her. + +There was a quiet-looking old gentleman in the room where the two +ladies sat conversing. He had a book in his hand, and seemed to be +reading; though, in fact, he was observing all that was said and +done. He had not designed to do this, but the interruption of little +Mary threw his mind off his book, and his thoughts entered a new +element. This person was a brother of Mrs. Elder, and had recently +become domesticated in her family. He was a bachelor. + +After the (sic) visiter had retired, Mrs. Elder sat down to her +work-table in the same room where she had received her company, and +resumed her sewing operations, which the call had suspended. She had +not been thus engaged long, before Mary came back into the room, +looking sad enough. Instead of going to her mother; she went up to +the old gentleman, and looking into his face with her yet tearful +eyes, said-- + +"Uncle William?" + +"What, dear?" was returned in a kind voice. + +"Something sticks my neck. Won't you see what it is?" + +Uncle William laid down his book, and, turning down the neck of +Mary's frock, found that the point of a pin was fretting her body. +There was at least a dozen little scratches, and an inflamed spot +the size of a dollar. + +"Poor child!" he said, tenderly, as he removed the pin. "There now! +It feels better, doesn't it?" + +"Yes, it feels better; thank you, dear uncle!" and Mary put up her +sweet lips and kissed him. The old gentleman was doubly repaid for +his trouble. Mary ran lightly away, and he resumed his book. + +In about ten minutes, the child opened the door and came in pulling +the dredging-box, to which she had tied a string, along the floor, +and marking the progress she made by a track of white meal. + +"You little torment!" exclaimed the mother, springing up, and +jerking the string and box angrily from Mary's hand. "It is too bad! +you know well enough that you had no business to touch this. Just +see what a condition the floor is in! Oh dear! Shall I never teach +the child any thing?" + +Mrs. Elder took the dredging-box out into the kitchen, and gave the +cook a sound scolding for permitting the child to have it. When she +got back, Mary had her work-basket on the floor, rummaging through +it for buttons and spools of cotton. + +"Now just see that!" she exclaimed again. "There now!" And little +Mary's ears buzzed for half an hour afterwards from the sound box +she received. + +After the child was thrust from the room, Mrs. Elder said, +fretfully, "I'm out of all heart! I never saw such children. They +seem ever bent on doing something wrong. Hark! what's that?" + +There was the crash of something falling over head, followed by a +loud scream. + +Uncle William and Mrs. Elder both started from the room and ran +up-stairs. Here they found Henry, a boy two years older than Mary, +who was between three and four, lying on the carpet with a bureau +drawer upon him, which he had, while turning topsy-turvy after +something or other, accidentally pulled out upon him. He was more +frightened than hurt, by a great deal. + +"Now just look at that!" ejaculated the outraged mother when the +cause of alarm became apparent. "Just look at that, will you? Isn't +it beyond all endurance! Haven't I told you a hundred times not to +go near my drawers, ha? No matter if you'd been half killed! There, +march out of the room as quick as you can go." And she seized Henry +by the arm with a strong grip, and fairly threw him, in her anger, +from the chamber. + +While she was yet storming, fretting, and fuming over the drawer, +Uncle William retired from the apartment and, went down-stairs +again. On entering the room he had left but a few minutes before, he +found Mary at her mother's work-basket again, notwithstanding the +box she had received only a short time before for the same fault. + +"Mary," said Uncle William to the child, in a calm, earnest, yet +kind voice. + +The child took its hands from the basket and came up to her uncle. + +"Mary, didn't your mother tell you not to go to her basket?" + +"Yes, sir," replied Mary, looking steadily into her uncle's face. + +"Then why did you go?" + +"I don't know." + +"It was very wrong." Uncle William spoke seriously, and the child's +face assumed a serious expression. + +"Will you do it any more?" + +"No, sir." Mary shrink close to her uncle, and her reply was in a +whisper. + +"Be sure and not forget, Mary. Mother sews with her spools of +cotton, and uses her scissors to make little Mary frocks and aprons, +and if Mary takes any thing out of her work-basket, she can't do her +sewing good. Will you remember?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Now don't forget." + +"No, sir." + +"And just see, Mary, how you have soiled the carpet with the +dredging-box! Didn't you know the flour would come out and be +scattered all over the floor?" + +"No, sir." + +"But now you know it." + +"Yes, sir." + +"You won't get the dredging-box any more?" + +"No, sir." + +While this conversation was going on, Mrs. Elder came down, still +feeling much excited. After Uncle William had said what he +considered enough to Mary, he took up his book and commenced +reading. The child stood leaning against him for five or ten +minutes, and then ran out of the room. + +"How long do you suppose she will remember what you have said?" +remarked Mrs. Elder, with a lightness of tone that showed her +contempt for all such measures of reform. + +"Much longer than she will remember your box on the ear," was the +blunt reply. + +"I doubt it. Words make no impression on children." + +"Harsh words make very little impression, I admit. For these close +up, instead of entering the avenues to the mind. Kind words, and +reasons for things, go a great way even with children. How long did +Mary remember and profit by your sound rating and box on the ear +(still red with the blow) into the bargain? Not over ten minutes; +for when I came down-stairs, she had both hands into your basket +again." + +"The little huzzy! It's well for her that I did not catch her at +it!" + +"It is well indeed, Sarah, for you would, by your angry and unjust +punishment, have done the little creature a serious injury. Did you +ever explain to her the use of your work-basket and the various +things in it, and make her comprehend how necessary it was to you to +have every thing in order there, just as you placed it?" + +"Gracious, William! Do you think I haven't something else to do +besides wasting time in explaining to children the use of every +thing in my work-basket? What good would it do, I wonder?" + +"It would do a great deal of good, Sarah, you may rely upon it, and +be a great saving of time into the bargain; for if you made your +children properly comprehend the use of every thing around them, and +how their meddling with certain things was wrong, because it would +incommode you, you would find them far less disposed than now to put +their hands into wrong places. Try it." + +"Nonsense! I wonder if I haven't been trying all my life to make +them understand that they were not to meddle with things that didn't +belong to them! And what good has it done?" + +"Very little, I must own; for I never saw children who had less +regard to what their mother says than yours have." + +This touched Mrs. Elder a little. She didn't mind animadverting upon +the defects of her children, but was ready to stand up in their +defence whenever any one else found fault with them. + +"I reckon they are not the worst children in the world," she +replied, rather warmly. + +"I should be sorry if they were. But they are not the best either, +by a long way, although naturally as good children as are seen +anywhere. It is your bad management that is spoiling them." + +"My management!" + +"Frankly, Sarah, I am compelled to affirm that it is. I have been in +your house, now, for three or four months, and must say that I am +surprised that your children are as good as they are. Don't be +angry! Don't be fretted with me as you are with every thing in them +that doesn't please you. I am old enough to hear reason as well as +to talk reason. Let us go back to a point on which I wished to fix +your attention, but from which we digressed. In trying to correct +Mary's habit of rummaging in your work-basket, you boxed her ears, +and stormed at her in a most unmotherly way. Did it do any good? No; +for in ten minutes she was at the same work again. For this I talked +to her kindly, and endeavoured to make her sensible that it was +wrong to disturb your basket." + +"And much good it will do!" Mrs. Elder did not feel very amiable. + +"We shall see," said Uncle William, in his calm way. "Now I propose +that we both go out of this room, and let Mary come into it, and be +here alone for half an hour. My word for it, she doesn't touch your +work-basket." + +"And my word for it, she goes to it the first thing." + +"Notwithstanding you boxed her ears for the same fault so recently?" + +"Yes, and notwithstanding you reasoned with her, and talked to her +so softly but a few moments since." + +"Very well. The experiment is worth making, not to see who is right, +but to see if a gentler mode of government than the one you have +adopted will not be much better for your children. I am sure that it +will." + +As proposed, the mother and Uncle William left the room, and Mary +was allowed to go into it and remain there alone for half an hour. +Long before this time had expired, Mrs. Elder's excited feelings had +cooled off, and been succeeded by a more sober and reflective state +of mind. At the end of the proposed period, Uncle William came down, +and joining his sister, said-- + +"Now, Sarah, let us go and see what Mary has been doing; but before +we enter the room, let me beg of you not to show angry displeasure, +nor to speak a harsh or loud word to Mary, no matter what she may +have been about; for it will do no good, but harm. You have tried it +long enough, and its ill effects call upon you to make a new +experiment." + +Mrs. Elder, who was in a better state than she was half an hour +before, readily agreed to this. They then went together into the +room. As they entered, Mary looked up at them from the floor where +she was, sitting, her face bright with smiles at seeing them. + +"You lit"-- + +Uncle William grasped quickly the hand of his sister to remind her +that she was not to speak harshly to Mary, no matter what she was +doing, and was thus able to check the storm of angry reproof that +was about to break upon the head of the child, who had been up to +the book-case and taken, therefrom two rows of books, with which she +was playing on the floor. + +"What are you doing, dear?" asked Uncle William, kindly. + +"Building a house," replied the child, the smiles that the sudden +change in the mother's countenance had driven from her face, coming +back and lighting up her beautiful young brow. "See here what a +pretty house I have, uncle! And here is the fence, and these are +trees." + +"So it is, a very pretty house," replied the uncle, while the mother +could scarcely repress her indignation at the outrage Mary had +committed upon the book-case. + +The uncle glanced toward the table, upon which the, work-basket +remained undisturbed. He then sat down, and said--"Come here, love." + +Mary got up and ran quickly to him. + +"You didn't touch mother's work-basket?" he said. + +"No, sir," replied Mary. + +"Why?" + +Mary thought a moment, and then said--"You told me not to do it any +more." + +"Why not?" + +"Because if I take the cotton and scissors, mother can't make aprons +and frocks for Mary." + +"And if you go into her work-basket, you disturb every thing and +make her a great deal of trouble. You won't do it any more?" + +"No, sir." And the child shook her head earnestly. + +"Didn't you know that it was also wrong to take the books out of the +book-case? It not only hurts the books, but throws the room and the +book-case into disorder." + +"I wanted to build a house," said Mary. + +"But books are to read, not to build houses with." + +"Won't you ask papa to buy me a box of blocks, like Hetty Green's, +to build houses with?" + +"I'll buy them for you myself the next time I go out," replied Uncle +William. + +"Oh, will you?" And Mary clapped her hands joyfully together. + +"But you must never disturb the books in the book-case any more." + +"No, sir," replied the child, earnestly. + +Mrs. Elder felt rebuked. To hide what was too plainly exhibited in +her countenance, she stooped to the floor and commenced taking up +the books and replacing them in the book-case. + +"Now go up into my room, Mary, and wait there until I come. I want +to tell you something." + +The child went singing up-stairs as happy as she could be. + +"You see, Sarah, that kind words are more effective than harsh names +with children. Mary didn't touch your work-basket." + +"But she went to the book-case, which was just as bad. Children must +be in some mischief." + +"Not so bad, Sarah; for she had been made to comprehend why it was +wrong to go to your basket, but not so of the book-case." + +"I'm sure I've scolded her about taking down the books fifty times, +and still, every chance she can get, she's at them again." + +"You may have scolded her; but scolding a child and making it +comprehend its error are two things. Scolding darkens the mind by +arousing evil passions, instead of enlightening it with clear +perceptions of right and, wrong. _No child is ever improved by +scolding, but always injured_." + +"There are few children who are not injured, then. I should like to +see a mother get along with a parcel of children without scolding +them." + +"It is a sad truth, as you say, that there are but few children who +are not injured by scolding. No cause is so active for evil among +children as their mother's impatience, which shows itself from the +first, and acts upon them through the whole period in which their +minds are taking impressions and hardening into permanent forms. +Like you, Sarah, our own mother had but little patience among her +children, and you can look back and remember, as well as I, many +instances in which this impatience led her into hasty and ill-judged +acts and expressions that did us harm rather than good." + +"It's an easy thing to talk, William. An easy thing to say--Have +patience." + +"I know it is, Sarah; and a very hard thing to compel ourselves to +have patience. But, if a mother's love for her children be not +strong enough to induce her to govern herself for their sakes, who +shall seek their good? Who will make any sacrifice for them?" + +"Are you not afraid to trust Mary up in your room?" said Mrs. Elder, +recollecting at the moment that Mary was alone there for a longer +time than she felt to be prudent. + +"No. She will not trouble any thing." + +"I'd be afraid to trust her. She's a thoughtless, impulsive child, +and might do some damage." + +"No danger. She understands perfectly what may be and what may not +be touched in my room, and so do all the children in the house. I +wouldn't be afraid to leave them all there for an hour." + +"You'd be afraid afterwards, I guess, if you were to try the +experiment." + +"I am willing to try it." + +"You are welcome." + +"Henry! William!" Uncle William went to the door and called the +children. + +Two boys came romping into the room. + +"Boys," he said, "Mary is up in my room, and I want you to go up and +stay with her until I come." + +Away scampered the little fellows as merry as crickets. + +"They'll make sad work in your room, brother; and if they do, you +mustn't blame me for it." + +"Oh, no, I shall not blame you, nor scold them, but endeavour to +apply some corrective that will make them think, and determine never +to do so again. However, I am pretty well satisfied that nothing +will be disturbed." + +In less than an hour, Mrs. Elder and her brother went up to see what +the children were about. They found them seated on the floor, with +two or three loose packs of plain cards about them, out of which +they were forming various figures, by laying them together upon the +floor. + +"Why, children! How could you take your uncle's cards?" said Mrs. +Elder reprovingly. + +"He lets us play with them, mother," replied the oldest boy, turning +to his uncle with an appealing look. + +"You haven't touched any thing else?" said Uncle William. + +"No, sir, nothing else. We found Mary playing with the cards when we +came up, and we've been playing with them ever since. You don't +care, do you, Uncle William?" + +"No; for I've told you, you remember, that you might play with the +cards whenever you wanted to." + +"Can't we play with them longer, Uncle William?" asked Mary. + +"Yes, my dear, you can play with them as long as you choose." + +Mrs. Elder and her brother turned away and went down-stairs. + +"I don't know how it is, William, that they behave themselves so +well in your room, and act like so many young Vandals in every other +part of the house." + +"It is plain enough, Sarah," replied her brother. "I never scold +them, and never push them aside when they come to me, no matter what +I'm engaged in doing. I never think a little time taken from other +employments thrown away when devoted to children; and, therefore, I +generally hear what they have to say, let them come to me when they +will. Sometimes I am engaged in such a way that I must not be +interrupted, and then I lock my door. I have explained this to them, +and now the children, when they find my door locked, immediately go +away. On admitting them into my room at first, I was very careful to +tell them that such and such things must on no account be touched, +and explain the reason why; at the same time I gave them free +permission to play with other things that could sustain no serious +injury. Only once or twice has any of them ventured to trespass on +forbidden ground. But, instead of scolding, or even administering a +reprimand, I forbade the one who had done wrong coming to my room +for a certain time. In no case have I had to repeat the +interdiction. If I can thus govern them in my room, I am sure you +can do it in the whole house, if you go the right way about it." + +"You say that you always attend to them when they come to you?" said +Mrs. Elder. + +"Yes. I try to do so, no matter how much I am engaged." + +"If I were to do that, I would be attending to them all the time. I +couldn't sit a moment with a visitor, nor say three words to +anybody. You saw how it was this morning. The moment I sat down to +talk with Mrs. Peters, Mary came and commenced interrupting me at +every word, until I was forced to put her from the room." + +"Yes, I saw it," replied the brother in a voice that plainly enough +betrayed his disapproval of his sister's conduct in that particular +instance. + +"And you think I ought to have neglected my visitor to attend to an +ill-mannered child?" + +"I think, when Mary came to you, as she did, that you should have +attended to her at once. If you had done so, you would have relieved +her from pain, and saved yourself and visitor from a serious +annoyance." + +"How do you mean?" + +"Don't you know what Mary wanted?" + +"No." + +"Is it possible! I thought you learned it when she came to me after +Mrs. Peters had left. + +"No, I didn't know. What was the matter with her?" + +The brother stepped to the door and called for Mary, who presently +came running down-stairs. + +"What do you want, uncle?" said she, as she came up to him and +lifted her sparkling blue eyes to his face. + +"What were you going to ask your mother to do for you when Mrs. +Peters was here this morning?" + +"A pin stuck me," replied the child, artlessly. "Don't you know that +you took it out?" + +"Yes, so I did. Let me look at the place," and he turned down Mary's +frock so that her mother could see the scratched and inflamed spot +upon her neck. + +"Poor child!" said Mrs. Elder, the tears springing to her eyes as +she stooped down and kissed the wounded place. + +"Are you playing with the cards yet, dear?" asked Uncle William. + +"Yes, sir." + +"Do you want to play more?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Run along then." And Mary tripped lightly away. + +"When the child first spoke to you, Sarah, if you had paused to see +what she wanted, all would have been right in a few minutes. Even if +her request had been frivolous, by attending to it you would have +satisfied her, and been in a much better frame of mind to entertain +your friend." + +Mrs. Elder was silent. There was conviction in Mary's inflamed neck +not to be resisted; and the conviction went to her heart. + +"We," said the old gentleman, "who have attained to the age of +reason, expect children, who do not reflect, to act with all the +propriety of men and women, and that too, without mild and correct +instruction as to their duties. Are we not most to blame? They must +regard our times, seasons, and conveniences, and we will attend to +their ever active wants, when our leisure will best permit us to do +so. Is it any wonder, under such a system, that children are +troublesome? Would it not be a greater wonder were they otherwise? +We must first learn self-government and self-denial before we can +rightly govern children. After that, the task will be an easy one." + +Mrs. Elder stayed to hear no more, but, rising abruptly, went up +into her chamber to think. When she appeared in her family, her +countenance was subdued, and when she spoke, her voice was lower and +more earnest. It was remarkable to see how readily her children +minded when she spoke to them, and how affectionately they drew +around her. Uncle William was delighted. In a few days, however, old +habits returned, and then her brother came to her aid, and by timely +uttered counsel gave her new strength. It was wonderful to see what +an improvement three months had made, and at the end of a year no +more loving and orderly household could be found. It took much of +Mrs. Elder's time, and occupied almost constantly her thoughts; but +the result well paid for all. + +Thinking that this every-day incident in the history of a friend +would appeal strongly to some mother who has not yet learned to +govern herself, or properly regard the welfare of her children, we +have sketched it hastily, and send it forth in the hope that it may +do good. + + + + + + +LOSING ONE'S TEMPER. + + + + + +I WAS sitting in my room one morning, feeling all "out of sorts" +about something or other, when an orphan child, whom I had taken to +raise, came in with a broken tumbler in her hand, and said, while +her young face was pale, and her little lip quivered,-- + +"See, Mrs. Graham! I went to take this tumbler from the dresser to +get Anna a drink of water, and I let it fall." + +I was in a fretful humour before the child came in, and her +appearance, with the broken tumbler in her hand, did not tend to +help me to a better state of mind. She was suffering a good deal of +pain in consequence of the accident, and needed a kind word to quiet +the disturbed beatings of her heart. But she had come to me in an +unfortunate moment. + +"You are a careless little girl!" said I, severely, taking the +fragments of glass from her trembling hands. "A very careless little +girl, and I am displeased with you!" + +I said no more; but my countenance expressed even stronger rebuke +than my words. The child lingered near me for, a few moments, and +then shrunk away from the room. I was sorry, in a moment, that I had +permitted myself to speak unkindly to the little girl; for there was +no need of my doing so; and, moreover, she had taken my words, as I +could see, deeply to heart. I had made her unhappy without a cause. +The breaking of the tumbler was an accident likely to happen to any +one and the child evidently felt bad enough about what had occurred, +without having my displeasure added thereto. + +If I was unhappy before Jane entered my room I was still more +unhappy after she retired. I blamed myself, and pitied the child; +but this did not in the least mend the matter. + +In about half an hour, Jane came up very quietly with Willy, my dear +little, curly-haired, angel-face boy, in her arms. He had fallen +asleep, and she had, with her utmost strength, carried him +up-stairs. She did not lift her eyes to mine as she entered, but +went, with her burden, to the low bed that was in the room, where +she laid him tenderly, and then sat down with her face turned partly +away from me, and with a fan kept off the flies and cooled his moist +skin. + +Enough of Jane's countenance was visible to enable me to perceive +that its expression was sad. And it was an unkind word from my lips +that had brought this cloud over her young face! + +"So much for permitting myself to fall into a fretful mood," said I, +mentally. "In future I must be more watchful over my state of mind. +I have no right to make others suffer from my own unhappy temper." + +Jane continued to sit by Willy and fan him; and every now and then I +could hear a very low sigh come up, as if involuntarily, from her +bosom. Faint as the sound was, it smote upon my ear, and added to my +uncomfortable frame of mind. + +A friend called, and I went down into the parlour, and sat +conversing there for an hour. But all the while there was a weight +upon my feelings. I tried, but in vain, to be cheerful. I was too +distinctly aware of the fact, that an individual--and that a +motherless little girl--was unhappy through my unkindness; and the +consciousness was like a heavy hand upon my bosom. + +"This is all a weakness," I said to myself, after my friend had +left, making an effort to throw off the uncomfortable feeling. But +it was of no avail. Even if the new train of thought, awakened by +conversation with my friend, had lifted me above the state of mind +in which I was when she came, the sight of Jane's sober face, as she +passed me on the stairs, would have depressed my feelings again. + +In order both to relieve my own and the child's feelings, I thought +I would refer to the broken tumbler, and tell her not to grieve +herself about it, as its loss was of no consequence whatever. But +this would have been to have made an acknowledgment to her that I +had been in the wrong, and instinctive feeling of pride remonstrated +against that. + +"Ah me!" I sighed. "Why did I permit myself to speak so unguardedly? +How small are the cause that sometimes destroy our peace! How much +good or evil is there in a single word!" + +Some who read this may think that I was very weak to let a hastily +uttered censure against a careless child trouble me. What are a +child's feelings? + +I have been a child; and, as a child, have been blamed severely by +those whom I desired to please, and felt that unkind words fell +heavier and more painfully, sometimes, than blows. I could, +therfore, understand the nature of Jane's feelings, and sympathize +with her to a certain extent. + +All through the day, Jane moved about more quietly than usual. When +I spoke to her about any thing--which I did in a kinder voice than I +ordinarily used--she would look into my face with an earnestness +that rebuked me. + +Toward evening, I sent her down-stairs for a pitcher of cool water. +She went quickly, and soon returned with the pitcher of water, and a +tumbler, on a waiter. She was coming towards me, evidently using +more than ordinary caution, when her foot tripped against something, +and she stumbled forward. It was in vain that she tried to save the +pitcher. Its balance was lost, and it fell over and was broken to +pieces at my feet, the water dashing upon the skirt of my dress. + +The poor child became instantly as pale as ashes, and the frightened +look she gave me I shall not soon forget. She tried to speak, and +say that it was an accident, but her tongue was, paralyzed for the +moment, and she found no utterance. + +The lesson I had received in the morning served me for purposes of +self-control now, and I said, instantly, in a mild, voice-- + +"Never mind, Jane; I know you couldn't help it. I must tack down +that loose edge of the carpet. I came near tripping there myself +to-day. Go and get a floor-cloth and wipe up the water as quickly as +you can, while I gather up the broken pieces." + +The colour came back instantly to Jane's face. She gave me one +grateful look, and then ran quickly away, to do as I had directed +her. When she came back, she blamed herself for not having been more +careful, expressed sorrow for the accident, and promised over and +over again that she would be more guarded in future. + +The contrast between both of our feelings now and what they were in +the morning, was very great. I felt happier for having acted justly +and with due self-control; and my little girl, though troubled on +account of the accident, had not the extra burden of my displeasure +to bear. + +"Better, far better," said I to myself, as I sat and reflected upon +the incidents just related--"better, far better is it, in all our +relations in life, to maintain a calm exterior, and on no account +speak harshly to those who are below us. Angry words make double +wounds. They hurt those whom they are addressed, while they leave a +sting behind them. Above all, should we guard against a moody +temper. Whenever we permit any thing to fret our minds, we are not +in a state to exercise due self-control, and if temptation comes +then we are sure to fall." + + + + + + +TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS + + + + + +"OH, dear Mrs. Graham!" said my neighbour Mrs. Jones to me one day, +"what shall I do for good help? I am almost worried out of my +senses. I wish somebody would invent a machine to cook, wash, scrub, +and do housework in general. What a blessing it would be! As for the +whole tribe of flesh and blood domestics, they are not worth their +salt." + +"They are all poorly educated," I replied, "and we cannot expect +much of them. Most of them have nearly every thing to learn when +they come into our houses, and are bad scholars into the bargain. +But we must have patience. I find it my only resource." + +"Patience!" ejaculated Mrs. Jones, warmly. It would require more +patience than Job ever possessed to get along with some of them." + +"And yet," said I, "we accomplish little or nothing by impatience. +At least such is my experience." + +"I don't know, ma'am," replied Mrs. Jones. "If you go to being +gentle and easy with them, if you don't follow them up at every +point, you will soon have affairs in a pretty condition! They don't +care a fig for your comfort nor interest--not they! In fact, more +than half of them would, a thousand times, rather make things +disagreeable for you than otherwise." + +"I know they are a great trial, sometimes," I answered, not feeling +at liberty to say to my (sic) visiter all I thought. "But we must +endeavour to bear it the best we can. That is my rule; and I find, +in the long run, that I get on much better when I repress all +exhibition of annoyance at their carelessness, short-comings, +neglect, or positive misdeeds, than I do when I let them see that I +am annoyed, or exhibit the slightest angry feeling." + +Not long after this, we accepted an invitation to take tea with Mr. +and Mrs. Jones, and I then had an opportunity of seeing how she +conducted herself towards her domestics. I was in no way surprised, +afterwards, that she found difficulty in getting along with +servants. + +Soon after my husband and myself went in, and while we were sitting +in the parlour, Mrs. Jones had occasion to call a servant. I noticed +that, when she rung the bell, she did so with a quick jerk; and I +could perceive a tone of authority in the ting-a-ling of the bell, +the sound of which was distinctly heard. Nearly two minutes passed +before the servant made her appearance, in which time the bell +received a more vigorous jerk. At last she entered, looking flushed +and hurried. + +"What's the reason you did not come when I first rung?" inquired our +lady hostess, in a severe tone. + +"I--I--came as quick as I could," replied the girl, with a look of +mortification at being spoken to before strangers. + +"No, you didn't! It's your custom to wait until I ring twice. Now +let this be the last time!" + +And then, in a low voice, Mrs. Jones gave the direction for which +she had summoned her. + +"Such a set!" ejaculated the lady, as the girl left the room. Her +words were intended to reach other ears besides ours; and so they +did. "That girl," she continued, addressing me, "has a habit of +making me ring twice. It really seems to give them pleasure, I +believe, to annoy you. Ah, me! this trouble with servants is a never +ending one. It meets you at every turn." + +And, for some time, she animadverted upon her favourite theme--for +such it appeared to be,--until her husband, who was evidently +annoyed, managed to change the subject of discourse. Once or twice +she came back to it before tea-time. + +At last the tea bell rung, and we ascended to the dining-room. We +were but fairly seated, when a frown darkened suddenly on the brow +of our hostess, and her hand applied itself nervously to the +table-bell. + +The girl who had set the table came up from the kitchen. + +"There is no sugar in the bowl," said Mrs. Jones sharply. "I wish +you would learn to set the table while you are about it. I'm sure I +have spoken to you often enough." + +As the girl took the sugar-bowl to fill it, the frown left the face +of our hostess, and she turned to me with a bland smile, and asked +whether I used sugar and cream in my tea. I replied in the +affirmative; but did not smile in return, for I could not. I knew +the poor girl's feelings were hurt at being spoken to in such a way +before strangers, and this made me extremely uncomfortable. + +"Do you call this cream?" was the angry interrogation of Mrs. Jones, +as the girl returned with the sugar, pushing towards her the +cream-jug, which she had lifted from the table as she spoke. + +"Yes, ma'am," was replied. + +"Look at it, and see, then." + +"It's the cream," said the girl. + +"If that's cream, I never want to see milk. Here! take it away and +bring me the cream." + +The girl looked confused and distressed. But she took the cream-jug +and went down-stairs with it. + +"That's just the way they always do!" said Mrs. Jones; leaning back +in her chair. "I really get out of all patience, sometimes." + +In a little while the girl returned. + +"It's the cream, ma'am, as I said. Here's the milk." And she +presented two vessels. + +Mrs. Jones took both from her hands with an ill-natured jerk. Sure +enough, it was as the girl had said. + +"Such cream!" fell from the lips of our hostess, as she commenced +pouring it into the cups already filled with tea. + +The girl went down-stairs to take back the milk she had brought up, +but she was scarcely at the bottom of the stairs, when the bell was +rung for her. + +"Why don't you stay here? What are you running off about?" said Mrs. +Jones, as she came in hurriedly. "You know I want you to wait on the +table." + +And so it was during the whole meal. The girl was not once spoken to +except in a tone of anger or offensive authority. + +I was no longer surprised that Mrs. Jones found it difficult to keep +good domestics, for no one of feeling can long remain with a woman +who speaks to them always in a tone of command, or who reproves them +in the presence of visitors. + +My husband was very severe upon Mrs. Jones after we returned home. +"No lady," said he, "ever spoke in anger or reproof to a domestic +before a visitor or stranger. Nothing more surely evinces a vulgar +and unfeeling mind." + +I did not attempt to gainsay his remark, for he expressed but my own +sentiment. So far from uttering a reproof in the presence of a +visitor, I am careful not to speak to my domestics about any fault +even in the presence of my husband. They have a certain respect for +themselves, and a certain delicacy of feeling, which we should +rather encourage than break down. Nearly all domestics are careful +to appear as well as possible in the eyes of the head of the family, +and it hurts them exceedingly to be reproved, or angrily spoken to, +before him. This every woman ought to know by instinct, and those +who do not are just so far deficient in the aggregate of qualities +that go to make up the true lady. + +I was by no means surprised to hear from Mrs. Jones, a few days +afterwards, that the "good-for-nothing creature" who waited upon the +table on the occasion of our taking tea at her house, had gone away +and left her. I thought better of the girl for having the spirit to +resent, in this way, the outrage committed upon her feelings. +Domestics have rights and feelings; and if people were to regard +these more, and treat them with greater kindness and consideration +than they do, there would be fewer complaints than there are at +present. This is my opinion, and I must be pardoned for expressing +it. + + + + + + +HAVEN'T THE CHANGE. + + + + + +IT was house-cleaning time, and I had an old coloured woman at work +scrubbing and cleaning paint. + +"Polly is going, ma'am," said one of my domestics, as the twilight +began to fall. + +"Very well. Tell her that I shall want her tomorrow." + +"I think she would like to have her money for to-day's work," said +the girl. + +I took out my purse, and found that I had nothing in it less than a +three-dollar bill. + +"How much does she have a day?" + +"Six shillings, ma'am." + +"I haven't the change this evening. Tell her that I'll pay for both +days to-morrow." + +The girl left the room, and I thought no more of Polly for an hour. +Tea-time had come and passed, when one of my domestics, who was +rather communicative in her habits, said to me: + +"I don't think old Polly liked your not paying her this evening." + +"She must be very unreasonable, then," said I, without reflection. +"I sent her word that I had no change. How did she expect I could +pay her?" + +"Some people are queer, you know, Mrs. Graham," remarked the girl +who had made the communication, more for the pleasure of telling it +than any thing else. + +I kept thinking over what the girl had said, until other suggestions +came into my mind. + +"I wish I had sent and got a bill changed," said I, as the idea that +Polly might be really in want of money intruded itself. "It would +have been very little trouble." + +This was the beginning of a new train of reflections, which did not +make me very happy. To avoid a little trouble, I had sent the poor +old woman away, after a hard day's work, without her money. That she +stood in need of it was evident from the fact that she had asked for +it. + +"How very thoughtless in me," said I, as I dwelt longer and longer +on the subject. + +"What's the matter?" inquired my husband, seeing me look serious. + +"Nothing to be very much troubled at," I replied. + +"Yet you are troubled." + +"I am; and cannot help it. You will, perhaps, smile at me, but small +causes sometimes produce much pain. Old Polly has been at work all +day, scrubbing and cleaning. When night came, she asked for her +wages, and I, instead of taking the trouble to get the money for +her, sent her word that I hadn't the change. There was nothing less +than a three-dollar bill in my purse. I didn't reflect that a poor +old woman who has to go out to daily work must need her money as +soon as it is earned. I am very sorry." + +My husband did not reply for some time. My words appeared to have +made considerable impression on his mind. + +"Do you know where Polly lives?" he inquired at length. + +"No; but I will ask the girl." And immediately ringing the bell, I +made inquiries as to where Polly lived; but no one in the house +knew. + +"It cannot be helped now," said my husband, in a tone of regret. +"But I would be more thoughtful in future. The poor always have need +of their money. Their daily labour rarely does more than supply +their daily wants. I can never forget a circumstance that occurred +when I was a boy. My mother was left a widow when I was but nine +years old--and she was poor. It was by the labour of her hands that +she obtained shelter and food for herself and three little ones. + +"Once, I remember the occurrence as if it had taken place yesterday, +we were out of money and food. At breakfast-time our last morsel was +eaten, and we went through the long day without a mouthful of bread. +We all grew very hungry by night; but our mother encouraged us to be +patient a little and a little while longer, until she finished the +garment she was making, when she would take that and some other work +home to a lady who would pay her for the work. Then, she said, we +should have a nice supper. At last the work was finished, and I went +with my mother to help carry it home, for she was weak and sickly, +and even a light burden fatigued her. The lady for whom she had made +the garment was in good circumstances, and had no want unmet that +money could supply. When we came into her presence, she took the +work, and, after glancing at it carelessly, said, + +"'It will do very well.' + +"My mother lingered; perceiving which, the lady said, rather rudely, + +"'You want your money, I suppose. How much does the work come to?' + +"'Two dollars,' replied my mother. The lady took out her purse; and, +after looking through a small parcel of bills, said, + +"'I haven't the change this evening. Call over anytime, and you +shall have it.' + +"And without giving my mother time more earnestly to urge her +request, turned from us and left the room. I never shall forget the +night that followed. My mother's feelings were sensitive and +independent. She could not make known her want. An hour after our +return home, she sat weeping with her children around her, when a +neighbour came in, and, learning our situation, supplied the present +need." + +This relation did not make me feel any the more comfortable. +Anxiously I waited, on the next morning, the arrival of Polly. As +soon as she came I sent for her, and, handing her the money she had +earned on the day before, said, + +"I'm sorry I hadn't the change for you last night, Polly. I hope you +didn't want it very badly." + +Polly hesitated a little, and then replied, + +"Well, ma'am, I did want it very much, or I wouldn't have asked for +it. My poor daughter Hetty is sick, and I wanted to get her +something nice to eat." + +"I'm very sorry," said I, with sincere regret. "How is Hetty this +morning?" + +"She isn't so well, ma'am. And I feel very bad about her." + +"Come up to me in half an hour, Polly," said I. + +The old woman went down-stairs. When she appeared again, according +to my desire, I had a basket for her, in which were some wine, +sugar, fruit, and various little matters that I thought her daughter +would relish, and told her to go at once and take them to the sick +girl. Her expressions of gratitude touched my feelings deeply. Never +since have I omitted, under any pretence, to pay the poor their +wages as soon as earned. + + + + + + +OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN. + + + + + +"IF that were my child, I'd soon break him of such airs and capers. +Only manage him right, and he'll be as good a boy as can be found +anywhere." + +"Very few people appear to have any right government over their +children." + +"Very few. Here is my sister; a sensible woman enough, and one would +think the very person to raise, in order and obedience, a family of +eight children. But she doesn't manage them rightly; and, what is +remarkable, is exceedingly sensitive, and won't take kindly the +slightest hint from me on the subject. If I say to her, 'If that +were my child, Sarah, I would do so and so,' she will be almost sure +to retort something about old maids' children." + +"Yes, that's the way. No matter how defective the family government +of any one may be, she will not allow others to suggest +improvements." + +"It would not be so with me. If I had a family of children, I should +not only see their faults, but gladly receive hints from all sides +as to their correction." + +"It's the easiest thing in the world to govern children, if you go +the right way about it." + +"I know. There is nothing easier. And yet my sister will say, +sometimes, that she is perfectly at a loss what to do. But no +wonder. Like hundreds of others, she has let her children get +completely ahead of her. If they don't break her heart in the end, I +shall be glad." + +The immediate cause of this conversation between Miss Martha Spencer +and a maiden lady who had been twenty-five for some ten or fifteen +years--Miss Spencer could not be accused of extensive +juvenility--was the refractory conduct of Mrs. Fleetwood's oldest +child, a boy between six and seven years of age, by which a pleasant +conversation had been interrupted, and the mother obliged to leave +the room for a short period. + +"I think, with you," said Miss Jones, the visitor, "that Mrs. +Fleetwood errs very greatly in the management of her children." + +"Management! She has no management at all," interrupted Miss +Spencer. + +"In not managing her children, then, if you will." + +"So I have told her, over and over again, but to no good purpose. +She never receives it kindly. Why, if I had a child, I would never +suffer it to cry after it was six months old. It is the easiest +thing in the world to prevent it. And yet, one of Sarah's children +does little else but fret and cry all the time. She insists upon it +that it can't feel well. And suppose this to be the case?--crying +does it no good, but, in reality, a great deal of harm. If it is +sick, it has made itself so by crying." + +"Very likely. I've known many such instances," remarked Miss Jones. + +Mrs. Fleetwood, returning at the moment, checked this train of +conversation. She did not allude to the circumstance that caused her +to leave the room, but endeavoured to withdraw attention from it by +some pleasant remarks calculated to interest the visitor and give +the thoughts of all a new direction. + +"I hope you punished Earnest, as he deserved to be," said her +sister, as soon as Miss Jones had retired. "I never saw such a +child!" + +"He certainly behaved badly," returned Mrs. Fleetwood, speaking in +an absent manner. + +"He behaved outrageously! If I had a child, and he were to act as +Earnest did this morning, I'd teach him a lesson that he would not +forget in a year." + +"No doubt your children will be under very good government, Martha," +said Mrs. Fleetwood, a little sarcastically. + +"If they are not under better government than yours, I'll send them +all to the House of Refuge," retorted Miss Martha. + +The colour on Mrs. Fleetwood's cheeks grew warmer at this remark, +but she thought it best not to reply in a manner likely to provoke a +further insulting retort, and merely said-- + +"If ever you come to have children of your own, sister, you will be +able to understand, better than you now do, a mother's trials, +doubts, and difficulties. At present, you think you know a great +deal about managing children, but you know nothing." + +"I know," replied Martha, "that I could manage my own children a +great deal better than you manage yours." + +"If such should prove to be the case, no one will be more rejoiced +at the result than I. But I look, rather, to see your children, if +you should ever become a mother, worse governed than most people's." + +"You do?" + +"Yes, I do." + +"And why, pray?" + +"Because my own observation tells me, that those persons who are +most inclined to see defects in family government, and to find fault +with other people's management of their children, are apt to have +the most unruly young scape-graces in their houses to be found +anywhere." + +"That's all nonsense. The fact that a person observes and reflects +ought to make that person better qualified to act." + +"Right observation and reflection, no doubt, will. But right +observation and reflection in regard to children will make any one +modest and fearful on the subject of their right government, rather +than bold and boastful. Those who, like you, think themselves so +well qualified to manage children, usually make the worst managers." + +"It's all very well for you to talk in that way," said Martha, +tossing her head. "But, if I ever have children of my own, I'll show +you whether I have the worst young scape-graces to be found +anywhere." + +A low, fretful cry, or rather whine, had been heard from a child +near the door of the room, for some time. It was one of those +annoying, irritating cries, that proceed more from a fretful state +of mind than from any adequate external exciting cause. Martha +paused a moment, and then added-- + +"Do you think I would suffer a child to cry about the house half of +its time, as Ellen does? No, indeed. I'd soon settle that." + +"How would you do it?" + +"I'd make her stop crying." + +"Suppose you couldn't?" + +"Couldn't! That's not the way for a mother to talk." + +"Excuse me, Martha," said Mrs. Fleetwood, rising. "I would rather +not hear such remarks from you, and now repeat what I have before +said, more than once, that I wish you to leave me free to do what I +think right in my own family; as I undoubtedly will leave you +free, if ever you should have one." + +And Mrs. Fleetwood left the room, and taking the little girl who was +crying at the door by the hand, led her up stairs. + +"What is the matter, Ellen?" she asked as calmly and as soothingly +as the irritating nature of Ellen's peculiar cry or whine would +permit her. + +"Earnest won't play with me," replied the child, still crying. + +"Come up into my room, and see if there isn't something pretty there +to play with." + +"No--I don't want to," was the crying answer. + +"Yes; come." And Mrs. Fleetwood led along the resisting child. + +"No--no--no--I don't want to go. I want Earnest to play with me." + +"Humph! I'd stop that pretty quick!" remarked Miss Spencer to +herself, as the petulant cry of the child grew louder. "I'd never +allow a child of mine to go on like that." + +Mrs. Fleetwood felt disturbed. But experience had taught her that +whenever she spoke from an irritated state, her words rather +increased than allayed the evil she sought to correct. So she drew +the child along with her, using some force in order to do it, until +she reached her chamber. Her strongest impulse, on being alone with +Ellen, who still continued crying, was to silence her instantly by +the most summary process to which parental authority usually has +resort in such cases; but her mother's heart suggested the better +plan of diverting Ellen's mind, if possible, and thus getting it +into a happier state. In order to do this, she tried various means, +but without effect. The child still cried on, and in a manner so +disturbing to the mother, that she found it almost impossible to +keep from enforcing silence by a stern threat of instant punishment. +But, she kept on, patiently doing what she thought to be right, and +was finally successful in soothing the unhappy child. To her +husband, with whom she was conversing on that evening about the +state into which Ellen had fallen, she said-- + +"I find it very hard to get along with her. She tires my patience +almost beyond endurance. Sometimes it is impossible to bear with her +crying, and I silence it by punishment. But I observe that if I can +produce a cheerful state by amusing her and getting her interested +in some play or employment, she retains her even temper much longer +than when she has been stopped from crying by threats or punishment. +If I only had patience with her, I could get along better. But it is +so hard to have patience with a fretful, ever crying child." + +Of the mental exercises through which Mrs. Fleetwood passed, Miss +Martha Spencer knew nothing. She saw only the real and supposed +errors of her mode of government, and strongly condemned them. Her +doctrine was, in governing children, "implicit obedience must be had +at all hazards." At all hazards, as she generally expressed or +thought it was only meant for extreme or extraordinary cases. +Obedience she believed to be a thing easily obtained by any one who +chose to enforce it. No where, it must be owned, did she see +children as orderly and obedient as she thought they should be. But +that she did not hesitate to set down to the fault of the parents. +Her influence in the family of her sister was not good. To some +extent she destroyed the freedom of Mrs. Fleetwood, and to some +extent disturbed the government of her children by interfering with +it, and attempting to make the little ones do as she thought best. +Her interference was borne about as well as it could be by her +sister, who now and then gave her a "piece of her mind," and in +plain, straight forward terms. Mrs. Fleetwood's usual remark, when +Martha talked about what she would do, if she had children, was a +good humoured one, and generally something after this fashion-- + +"Old maids' children are the best in the world, I know. They never +cry, are never disobedient, and never act disorderly." + +Martha hardly relished this mode of "stopping her off," but it was +generally effective, though sometimes it produced a slight +ebullition. + +At last, though the chances in favour of matrimony had become +alarmingly few, Martha was wooed, won, and married to a gentleman +named Laurie, who removed with her to the West. + +"There is some prospect at last," Mrs. Fleetwood said to her +husband, with a smile, on the occasion of Martha's wedding, "of +sister's being able to bring into practice her theories in regard to +family government. I only hope the mother's children may be as good +as the old maid's." + +"I doubt if they will," remarked the husband, smiling in turn. + +"We shall see." + +Years passed, and Martha, now Mrs. Laurie, remained in the West. Her +sister frequently heard from her by letter, and every now and then +received the announcement of a fine babe born to the proud mother; +who as often spoke of her resolution to do her duty towards her +children, and especially in the matter of enforcing obedience. She +still talked eloquently of the right modes of domestic government, +and the high and holy duties of parents. + +"Let me be blamable in what I may," said she, in one of these +letters, "it shall not be a disregard to the best interests of my +children." + +"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Fleetwood, after reading the passage +to her husband. "But those who really understand the true character +of children, and are sensible of the fact that they inherit from +their parents all the evil and disorderly tendencies not fully +overcome in themselves, feel too deeply the almost hopeless task +they assume, to boast much of what they will do with _their_ +children. A humble, reserved, even trembling consciousness of the +difficulties in the way of the parent, is the most promising state +in which a parent can assume his or her responsibilities. To look +for perfect order and obedience is to look for what never comes. Our +duty is to sow good seed in the minds of our children, and to see +that the ground be kept as free from evil weeds as possible. The +time of fruit is not until reason is developed; and we err in +expecting fruit at an early period. There will come the tender +blade, green and pleasant to the eye, and the firm, upright stalk, +with its leaves and its branches; and flowers, too, after a while, +beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers; but the fruit of all our labour, +of all our careful culture, appears not until reason takes the place +of mere obedience, and the child becomes the man. This view saves me +from many discouragements; and leads me, in calm and patient hope, +to persevere, even though through months, and, I might almost say, +years, little prospect of ultimate fruit becomes apparent. But, good +seed must bring forth good fruit." + +After a while, Mrs. Laurie ceased to write in her old strain. She +sometimes spoke of her two eldest sons as fine boys, and of her two +little girls as dear, sweet creatures; but generally omitted saying +any thing more about her family than that all were in good health. + +Ten years after Martha's marriage and removal to the West, during +which time the sisters had not met, business required Mr. Fleetwood +to go to Cincinnati, and he proposed that his wife should accompany +him, and pay a visit to Mrs. Laurie, who lived in Springfield, Ohio. +Mrs. Fleetwood readily consented, and they started in the pleasant +month of October. + +On arriving at Springfield, they were met by Mr. Laurie at the +stage-office and taken to his house, where the sisters met, +overjoyed at seeing each other once more. + +"Is that one of your children?" asked Mrs. Fleetwood, after she had +laid aside her bonnet and riding-dress, and seated herself in her +sister's chamber. A red-faced boy, with pouting lips, and a brow +naturally or artificially so heavy as almost to conceal his organs +of vision, stood holding on to one side of the door, and swinging +himself in and out, all the while eyeing fixedly his aunt, of whose +intended visit he had been advised. + +"Yes, that is my oldest. Henry, come here and speak to your aunty." + +But Henry did not change either attitude, motion, nor expression, +any more than if he had been a swinging automaton. + +"Did you hear me?" Mrs. Laurie spoke with a slight change in her +voice and manner. + +The boy remained as impassive as before. + +"Come, dear, and shake hands with me," said Mrs. Fleetwood. + +Henry now put one of his thumbs into his mouth, but neither looked +nor acted less savagely than at first. + +Mrs. Laurie was fretted at this unfavourable exhibition of himself +by her son. She felt as if she would like to get hold of him and box +his ears until they burned for a week. + +"Henry! Come here!" She spoke in a tone of command. The door was +quite as much impressed as her son. + +"Either come and speak to your aunty, or go down-stairs +immediately." + +The boy moved not. + +This was too much for Mrs. Laurie, and she started towards him. +Henry let go of the door, and went down-stairs about as quietly as a +horse would have gone. + +"He's such a strange, shy boy," said Mrs. Laurie, apologetically. +"But he has a good heart, and you can do almost any thing with him. +How is Earnest? the dear little fellow." + +"Earnest is almost a man. He is as large as I am," replied Mrs. +Fleetwood. + +"Indeed! I can't think of him as any thing but a bright little boy, +not so large as my Henry." + +As she said this, her Henry, who had gone clattering down-stairs a +few moments before, presented himself at the door again, and +commenced swinging himself, and taking observations of the state of +affairs within the chamber. The mother and aunt both concluded +within their own minds that it was as well not to take any notice of +him, and therefore went on with their conversation. Presently a +happy, singing voice was heard upon the stairs. + +"There comes my little Martha, the light of the whole house," said +Mrs. Laurie. In a few moments, a sweet-faced child presented +herself, and was about entering, when Henry stepped into the door, +and, putting a foot against each side, blocked up the way. Martha +attempted to pass the rude boy, and, in doing so, fell over one of +his feet, and struck her face a severe blow upon the floor. The loud +scream of the hurt child, the clattering of Henry down-stairs, and +the excited exclamation of the mother as she sprang forward, were +simultaneous. Mr. Laurie and Mr. Fleetwood came running up from the +room below, and arrived in time to see a gush of blood from the nose +of Martha, as her mother raised her from the floor. + +"Isn't it too much!" exclaimed Mrs. Laurie. "I think that it is the +worst boy I ever saw in my life!" + +The application of a little cold water soon staunched the flow of +blood, and a few kind words soothed the feelings of the child, who +sat in her mother's lap, and answered her aunt when she spoke to +her, like a little lady, as she was. + +"Where are the rest of your children?" asked Mrs. Fleetwood. The +gentlemen were now seated with the ladies. + +"You've had a pretty fair sample of them," replied Mr. Laurie, +smiling good humouredly, "and may as well be content with that for +the present. To say the best of them, they are about as wild a set +of young scape-graces as ever made each other miserable, and their +parents, too, sometimes." + +"Why, Mr. Laurie!" exclaimed his wife, who had not forgotten her old +opinions, freely expressed, about the ease with which children could +be governed. "I'm sure you needn't say that. I think our children +quite as good as other people's, and a little better than some I +could name." + +"Well, perhaps they are, and nothing to brag of at that," replied +Mr. Laurie. "Children are children, and you can't make any thing +more out of them." + +"But children should be made orderly and obedient," said Mrs. +Laurie, with some dignity of expression. + +"If they can," pleasantly returned the father. "So far, we, at +least, have not succeeded to our wishes in this respect. As to order +and obedience, they seem to be cardinal sins rather than cardinal +virtues, at present. But I hope better things after a while." + +As this was said, some one was heard tumbling rather than walking +up-stairs, and, in a moment after, in bolted a boy about seven years +old, crying out-- + +"Hen' says Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood have come! Have they, mom?" + +The boy stopped short on perceiving that strangers were present. + +"Yes, my son, your Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood are here," said Mr. +Fleetwood, reaching out his hand to the little fellow. Remembering +Martha's former rigid notions about the government of children, he +felt so much amused by what he saw, that he could hardly help +laughing out immoderately. "Come here," he added, "and let me talk +to you." + +The boy went without hesitation to his uncle, who took him by the +hand and said, with a half wicked glance at the mother, yet with a +broad good humoured smile upon his face, + +"That must be a very knowing hen of yours. I should like to have +some of her chickens." + +"What hen?" asked the boy, with a serious air. + +"Why, the hen that told you we were here." + +"No hen told me that." The boy looked mystified. + +"Oh! I thought you said Hen' told you so." + +"No, it was Henry." + +"Say, no _sir_, my son." Mrs. Laurie's face was not pale, certainly, +as she said this. + +The boy did not think it worth while to repeat the formality. + +"Oh! it was your brother Henry," replied Mr. Fleetwood, with +affected seriousness. "I thought that must have been a very knowing +hen." The boy, and his sister who had recovered from the pain of her +fall, laughed heartily. "Now tell me your name?" + +"John." + +"Say John, _sir_. Where are your manners?" spoke up the mother, who +remembered that, with all her sister's imperfect management of her +children, she had succeeded in teaching them to be very respectful +in their replies to older persons, and that Earnest, when she last +saw him, was a little gentleman in his manners when amy one spoke to +him. + +"Mo-_ther_!" came now ringing up the stairs, in a loud, screeching +little voice. "Mo-_ther_! Hen' won't let me come up." + +"I declare! That boy is too bad! He's a perfect torment!" said Mrs. +Laurie, fretfully. "I'm out of all heart with him." + +The father stepped to the head of the stairs, and spoke rather +sternly to the rebellious Henry. Little feet, were soon heard +pattering up, and the youngest of the young hopefuls made her +appearance, and, soon after, Henry pushed his really repulsive face +into the door and commenced grimacing at the other children, thereby +succeeding in what he desired to do, viz., starting little Maggy, +the youngest, into a whining, fretful cry, because "Hen' was making +faces" at her. This cry, once commenced, was never known to end +without the application of something more decided in its effects +than words. It was in vain that the mother used every persuasive, +diverting and soothing means in her power: the crying, loud enough +to drown all conversation, continued, until, taking the child up +hurriedly in her arms, she bore her into another room, where she +applied some pretty severe silencing measures, which had, however, +the contrary effect to that desired. The child cried on, but louder +than before. For nearly ten minutes, she sought by scolding and +whipping to silence her, but all was in vain. It is doubtful, after +the means used to enforce silence, whether the child could have +stopped if she had tried. At last, the mother locked her in a +closet, and came, with a flushed face and mortified feelings, back +to the room from which she had retired with Maggy. + +The moment Mrs. Laurie left, her husband, with a word and a look, +brought the three children into order and quietness. Henry was told, +in a low voice, and in a tone of authority, that he never thought of +questioning, to go up into the garret and remain there until he sent +for him. The boy retired without the slightest hesitation. + +When Mrs. Laurie returned, Mr. Fleetwood, who was a man of frank, +free, and pleasant manners, could not resist the temptation he felt +to remind her of the past; he, therefore, said, laughingly, + +"You have doubtless found out, by this time, Martha, that old maids' +children are the best." + +This sally had just the effect he designed it to have. It was an +apology for the children, as it classed them with other real +children, in contradistinction to the imaginary offspring of the +unmarried, that are known by every one to be faultless specimens of +juvenility. + +"Come! That is too bad, Mr. Fleetwood," replied Mrs. Laurie, feeling +an immediate sense of relief. "But, I own to the error I committed +before marriage. It seemed to me the easiest thing in the world to +manage children, when I thought about it, and saw where parents +erred, or appeared to err, in their modes of government. I did not +then know what was _in_ children. All their perverseness I laid to +the account of bad management. Alas! I have had some sad experiences +in regard to my error. Still, I cannot but own that children are +made worse by injudicious treatment, and also, that mine ought to be +a great deal better than they are." + +"Like the rest of us," returned Mr. Fleetwood, "you have no doubt +discovered, that it is one thing to _think_ about the government of +children, and another thing to be in the midst of their disturbing +sphere, and yet act as if you did not feel it. Theory and practice +are two things. It seems, when we think coolly, that nothing can be +easier than to cause the one exactly to correspond to the other. But +whoever makes the trial, especially where the right government of +children is concerned, will find it a most difficult matter. What +makes the government of their children so hard a thing for parents, +is the fact that the evils of the children have been inherited from +them, and therefore the reaction of these evils upon themselves is +the more disturbing. We haven't as much patience with the faults of +our own children, often, as other people have. They fret and annoy +us, and take away our ability to speak in a proper tone and act with +becoming dignity toward them, and thus destroy their respect for +us." + +"Nothing can be truer," said Mrs. Laurie. "I stand rebuked. I am +self-condemned, every day, on this very account. I used to think +that your government and that of Sarah's over your children very +defective. But it was far better than the government that I have +been able to exercise over mine. Ah me!" + +"Don't sigh over the matter so terribly, Martha," spoke up the +husband. "We shall get them right in the end. Never give up the +ship, is my motto in this and every thing else. But I wouldn't have +our brother and sister here think for a moment that the scenes they +have witnessed are enacted every day. Their visit is an occasion of +some excitement to our young folks, and they had to show off a +little. They will cool down again, and we shall get on pleasantly +enough." + +"That is all very true," said Mrs. Laurie, more cheerfully. "I never +saw them act quite so outrageously before, when any one came in. +There is much good in them, and you will see it before you leave +us." + +"No doubt in the world of that," replied Mr. Fleetwood; "there is +good in all children, and it is our duty to exercise great +forbearance towards their evils, and be careful lest, by what we do +or say, we strengthen, rather than break them." + +And the good that was in Mrs. Laurie's children was clearly seen by +Mr. and Mrs. Fleetwood during their stay; but, that good was, alas! +not strengthened as it might have been, nor were the evils they +inherited kept quiescent, as they would to a great extent have +remained, had the mother been more patient and forbearing--had her +practice been as good as her theory. + +It is easy for us to see how others ought to act toward their +children, but very hard for us to act right toward our own. + + + + + + +THE MOTHER AND BOY. + + + + + +"TOM, let that alone!" exclaimed a mother, petulantly, to a boy +seven years old, who was playing with a tassel that hung from one of +the window-blinds, to the imminent danger of its destruction. + +The boy did not seem to hear, but kept on fingering the tassel. + +"Let that be, I tell you! Must I speak a hundred times? Why don't +you mind at once?" + +The child slowly relinquished his hold of the tassel, and commenced +running his hand up and down the venitian blind. + +"There! there! Do for gracious sake let them blinds alone. Go 'way +from the window this moment, and try and keep your hands off of +things. I declare! you are the most trying child I ever saw." + +Tom left the window and threw himself at full length into the +cradle, where he commenced rocking himself with a force and rapidity +that made every thing crack again. + +"Get out of that cradle! What do you mean? The child really seems +possessed!" And the mother caught him by the arm and jerked him from +the cradle. + +Tom said nothing, but, with the most imperturbable air in the world, +walked twice around the room, and then pushing a chair up before the +dressing-bureau, took therefrom a bottle of hair lustral, and, +pouring the palm of his little hand full of the liquid, commenced +rubbing it upon his head. Twice had this operation been performed, +and Tom was pulling open a drawer to get the hair-brush, when the +odour of the oily compound reached the nostrils of the lad's mother, +who was sitting with her back toward him. Turning quickly, she saw +what was going on. + +"You!" fell angrily from her lips, as she dropped the baby in the +cradle. "Isn't it too much!" she continued, as she swept across the +room to where Tom was standing before the bureau-dressing-glass. + +"There, sir!" and the child's ear rang with the box he received. +"There, sir!" and the box was repeated. "Haven't I told you a +hundred times not to touch that hair-oil? Just see what a spot of +grease you've made on the carpet! Look at your hands!" + +Tom looked at his hands, and, seeing them full of oil, clapped them +quickly down upon his jacket, and tried to rub them clean. + +"There! stop! mercy! Now see your new jacket that you put on this +morning. Grease from top to bottom! Isn't it too bad! I am in +despair!" And the mother let her hands fall by her side, and her +body drop into a chair. + +"It's no use to try," she continued; "I'll give up. Just see that +jacket! it's totally ruined; and that carpet, too. Was there ever +such a trying boy! Go down-stairs this instant, and tell Jane to +come up here." + +Tom had reason to know that his mother was not in a mood to be +trifled with, so he went off briskly and called Jane, who was +directed to get some fuller's earth and put upon the carpet where +oil had been spilled. + +Not at all liking the atmosphere of his mother's room, Tom, being +once in the kitchen, felt no inclination to return. His first work +there, after delivering his message to Jane, was to commence turning +the coffee-mill. + +"Tommy," said the cook, mildly, yet firmly, "you know I've told you +that it was wrong to touch the coffee-mill. See here, on the floor, +where you have scattered the coffee about, and now I must get a +broom and sweep it up. If you do so, I can't let you come down +here." + +The boy stood and looked at the cook seriously, while she got the +broom and swept up the dirt he had made. + +"It's all clean again now," said the cook, pleasantly. "And you +won't do so any more, will you?" + +"No, I won't touch the coffee-mill." And, as Tom said this, he +sidled up to the knife-box that stood upon the dresser, and made a +dive into it with his hand. + +"Oh, no, no, no, Tommy! that won't do, either," said the cook. "The +knives have all been cleaned, and they are to go on the table to eat +with." + +"Then what can I play with, Margaret?" asked the child, as he left +the dresser. "I want something to play with." + +The cook thought a moment, and then went to a closet and brought out +a little basket filled with clothes-pins. As she held them in her +hand, she said--"Tommy, if you will be careful not to break any of +these, nor scatter them about, you may have them to play with. But +remember, now, that as soon as you begin to throw them around the +room, I will put them up again." + +"Oh, no, I won't throw them about," said the little fellow, with +brightening eyes, as he reached out for the basket of pins. + +In a little while he had a circle formed on the table, which he +called his fort; and inside of this he had men, cannon, +sentry-boxes, and other things that were suggested to his fancy. + +"Where's Thomas?" asked his mother, about the time he had become +fairly interested in his fort. + +"I left him down in the kitchen," replied Jane. + +"Go down and tell him to come up here instantly." + +Down went Jane. + +"Come along up-stairs to your mother," said she. + +"No, I won't," replied the boy. + +"Very well, mister! You can do as you like; but your mother sent for +you." + +"Tell mother I am playing here so good. I'm not in any mischief. Am +I, Margaret?" + +"No, Tommy; but your mother has sent for you, and you had better +go." + +"I don't want to." + +"Just as you like," said Jane, indifferently, as she left the +kitchen and went up-stairs. + +"Where's Thomas?" was the question with which she was met on +returning to the chamber. + +"He won't come, ma'am." + +"Go and tell him that if he doesn't come up to me instantly, I will +put on his night-clothes and shut him up in the closet." + +The threat of the closet was generally uttered ten times where it +was executed once; it made but little impression upon the child, who +was all absorbed in his fort. + +Jane returned. In a few moments afterward, the quick, angry voice of +the mother was heard ringing down the stairway. + +"You, Tom! come up here this instant." + +"I'm not troubling any thing, mother." + +"Come up, I say!" + +"Margaret says I may play with the clothes-pins. I'm only building a +fort with them." + +"Do you hear me?" + +"Mother!" + +"Tom! if you don't come to me this instant, I'll almost skin you. +Margaret! take them clothes-pins away. Pretty playthings, indeed, +for you to give a boy like him! No wonder I have to get a dozen new +ones every two or three months." + +Margaret now spoke. + +"Tommy, you must go up to your mother." + +She now took the clothes-pins and commenced putting them into the +basket where they belonged. Her words and action had a more instant +effect than all the mother's storm of passion. The boy left the +kitchen in tears, and went slowly up-stairs. + +"Why didn't you come when I called you? Say!" + +The mother seized her little boy by the arm the moment he came in +reach of her, and dragged rather than led him up-stairs, uttering +such exclamations as these by the way: + +"I never saw such a child! You might as well talk to the wind! I'm +in despair! I'll give up! Humph! clothes-pins, indeed! Pretty +playthings to give a child! Every thing goes to rack and ruin! +There!" + +And, as the last word was uttered, Tommy was thrust into his +mother's room with a force that nearly threw him prostrate. + +"Now take off them clothes, sir." + +"What for, mother? I haven't done any thing! I didn't hurt the +clothes-pins; Margaret said I might play with them." + +"D'ye hear? take off them clothes, I say!" + +"I didn't do any thing, mother." + +"A word more, and I'll box your ears until they ring for a month. +Take off them clothes, I say! I'll teach you to come when I send for +you! I'll let you know whether I am to be minded or not!" + +Tommy slowly disrobed himself, while his mother, fretted to the +point of resolution, eyed him with unrelenting aspect. The jacket +and trousers were removed, and his night-clothes put on in their +stead, Tommy all the while protesting tearfully that he had done +nothing. + +"Will you hush?" was all the satisfaction he received for his +protestations. + +"Now, Jane, take him up-stairs to bed; he's got to lie there all the +afternoon." + +It was then four, and the sun did not set until near eight o'clock. +Up-stairs the poor child had to go, and then his mother found some +quiet. Her babe slept soundly in the cradle, undisturbed by Tommy's +racket, and she enjoyed a new novel to the extent of almost entirely +forgetting her lonely boy shut up in the chamber above. + +"Where's Tommy?" asked a friend, who dropped in about six o'clock. + +"In bed," said the mother, with a sigh. + +"What's the matter? Is he sick?" + +"Oh, no. I almost wish he were." + +"What a strange wish! Why do you wish so?" + +"Oh, because he is like a little angel when he is sick--as good as +he can be. I had to send him to bed as a punishment for +disobedience. He is a hard child to manage; I think I never saw one +just like him; but, you know, obedience is every thing. It is our +duty to require a strict regard to this in our children." + +"Certainly. If they do not obey their parents as children, they will +not obey the laws as men." + +"That is precisely the view I take; and I make it a point to require +implicit obedience in my boy. This is my duty as a parent; but I +find it hard work." + +"It is hard, doubtless. Still we must persevere, and, in patience, +possessing our souls." + +"To be patient with a boy like mine is a hard task. Sometimes I feel +as if I should go wild." said the mother. + +"But, under the influence of such a feeling," remarked the friend, +"what we say makes little or no impression. A calmly uttered word, +in which there is an expression of interest in and sympathy for the +child, does more than the sternest commands. This I have long since +discovered. I never scold my children; scolding does no good, but +harm. My oldest boy is restless, excitable, and impulsive. If I were +not to provide him with the means of employing himself, or in other +ways divert him, his hands would be on every thing in the house, and +both he and I made unhappy." + +"But how can you interest him?" + +"In various ways. Sometimes I read to him; sometimes I set him to +doing things by way of assisting me. I take him out when I can, and +let him go with the girls when I send them on errands. I provide him +with playthings that are suited to his age. In a word, I try to keep +him in my mind; and, therefore, find it not very difficult to meet +his varying states. I never thrust him aside, and say I am too busy +to attend to him, when he comes with a request. If I cannot grant +it, I try not to say 'no,' for that word comes too coldly upon the +eager desire of an ardent-minded boy." + +"But how can you help saying 'no,' if the request is one you cannot +grant?" + +"Sometimes I ask if something else will not do as well; and +sometimes I endeavour to create a new interest in his mind. There +are various ways in which it may be done, that readily suggest +themselves to those desirous for the good of their children. It is +affection that inspires thought. The love of children always brings +a quick intelligence touching their good." + +Much more was said, not needful here to repeat. When the friend went +away, Tommy's mother, whose heart convicted her of wrong to her +little boy, went up to the room where she had sent him to spend four +or five lonely hours as a punishment for what was, in reality, her +own fault, and not his. Three hours of the weary time had already +passed. She did not remember to have heard a sound from him, since +she drove him away with angry words. In fact, she had been too +deeply interested in the new book she was reading, to have heard any +noise that was not of an extraordinary character. + +At the door of the chamber she stood and listened for a moment. All +was silent within. The mother's heart beat with a heavy motion. On +entering, she found the order of the room undisturbed; not even a +chair was out of place. Tommy was asleep on the bed. As his mother +bent over him, she saw that tears were upon his cheeks and eyelids, +and that the pillow was wet. A choking sigh struggled up from her +bosom; she felt a rebuking consciousness of having wronged her +child. She laid her hand upon his red cheek, but drew it back +instantly; it was hot with fever. She caught up his hand; it was +also in a burning glow. Alarm took the place of grief for having +wronged her boy. She tried to awaken him, but he only moaned and +muttered. The excitement had brought on a fever. + +When the father came home and laid his hand upon the hot cheek of +his sleeping boy, he uttered an exclamation of alarm, and started +off instantly for a physician. All night the wretched mother watched +by her sick child, unable, from fear and self-reproaches, to sleep. +When the morning broke, and Thomas looked up into her face with a +gleam of trusting affection, his fever was gone and his pulse was +calm. The mother laid her cheek thankfully against that of her boy, +and prayed to Heaven for strength to bear with him, and wisdom to +guide her feet aright; and as she did so, in the silence of her +overflowing heart, the lad drew his arms around her neck, and, +kissing her, said--"Mother, I do love you!" + +That tears came gushing over the mother's face is no cause of +wonder, nor that she returned, half wildly, the embrace and kiss of +her child. + +Let us hope that, in her future conduct towards her ardent, restless +boy, she may be able to control herself; for then she will not find +it hard to bring him under subjection to what is right. + + + + + + +THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. + + + + + +CHRISTMAS had come round again--merry old Christmas, with his +smiling face and wealth of good cheer; and every preparation had +been made by the Arlingtons for their annual Christmas party, which +was always a gay time for the young friends of the family. + +Some hundreds of miles away, in a quiet New-England village, lived +Mr. Archer, an uncle of Mr. Arlington. He was a good man; but being +a minister of the old school, and well advanced in years, he was +strongly prejudiced against all "fashionable follies," as he called +nearly every form of social recreation. Life was, in his eyes, too +solemn a thing to be wasted in any kind of trifling. In preaching +and praying, in pious meditation, and in going about to do good, +much of his time was passed; and another portion of it was spent in +reflecting upon and mourning over the thoughtless follies of the +world. He had no time for pleasure-taking; no heart to smile at the +passing foibles or merry humours of his fellow-men. + +Such was the Rev. Mr. Jason Archer--a good man, but with his mind +sadly warped through early prejudices, long confirmed. For years he +had talked of a journey to the city where his niece, to whom he was +much attached, resided. This purpose was finally carried out. It was +the day before Christmas, when Mrs. Arlington received a letter from +the old gentleman, announcing the fact that she might expect to see +him in a few hours, as he was about starting to pay her and her +family the long-intended visit. + +"Uncle Archer will be here to-morrow," said Mrs. Arlington to her +husband, as soon as she met him after receiving her letter. + +"Indeed! And so the good old gentleman has made a move at last?" + +"Yes; he's going to eat his Christmas dinner with us, he says." + +"So much the better. The pleasure of meeting him will increase the +joy of the occasion." + +"I am not so sure of that," replied Mrs. Arlington, looking a little +serious. "It would have been more pleasant to have received this +visit at almost any other time in the year." + +"Why so?" + +"You know his strong prejudices?" + +"Oh, against dancing, and all that?" + +"Yes; he thinks it a sin to dance." + +"Though I do not." + +"No; but it will take away half my pleasure to see him grieved at +any thing that takes place in my house." + +"He'll not be so weak as that." + +"He thinks it sin, and will be sadly pained at its occurrence. Is it +not possible to omit dancing for once?" + +"At the party to-morrow night?" + +"Yes." + +Mr. Arlington shook his head, as he replied-- + +"Don't think of such a thing. We will receive him with true +kindness, because we feel it towards the good old man. But we must +not cease to do what we know to be right, thus disappointing and +marring the pleasure of many, out of deference to a mere prejudice +of education in a single person. When we go to see him, we do not +expect that any change will be made out of deference to our +prejudices or peculiar opinions; and when he comes to see us, he +must be willing to tolerate what takes place in our family, even if +it does not meet his full approval. No, no; let us not think for a +moment of any change in affairs on this account. Uncle Archer hasn't +been present at a gay party nor seen dancing for almost half a +century. It may do him good to witness it now. At any rate, I feel +curious to see the experiment tried." + +Mrs. Arlington still argued for a little yielding in favour of the +good parson's prejudices, but her husband would not listen to such a +thing for a moment. Every thing, he said, must go on as usual. + +"A guest who comes into a family," he remarked, "should always +conform himself to the family order; then there is no reaction upon +him, and all are comfortable and happy. He is not felt as a thing +foreign and incongruous, but as homogeneous. To break up the usual +order, and to bend all to meet his personal prejudices and +peculiarities, is only to so disturb the family sphere as to make it +actually repellent. He is then felt as an unassimilated foreign +body, and all secretly desire his removal." + +"But something is due to old age!" urged Mrs. Arlington. + +"Yes; much. But, if age have not softened a man's prejudices against +a good thing in itself, I doubt very much if a deference to his +prejudice, such as you propose, will in the least benefit him. +Better let him come in contact with a happy circle, exhilarated by +music and dancing; and the chances are, that his heart will melt in +the scene rather than grow colder and harder. The fact is, as I +think of it more and more, the better pleased am I that Uncle Archer +is coming just at this time." + +But Mrs. Arlington felt troubled about the matter. Early on +Christmas morning, the old gentleman arrived, and was welcomed with +sincere affection by every member of the family. Mr. and Mrs. +Arlington had a daughter, named Grace, who was just entering her +eighteenth year. She was gentle and affectionate in disposition, and +drew to the side of Uncle Archer in a way that touched the old man's +feelings. He had not seen her before this, since she was a little +girl; and now, he could not keep his eyes off of her as she sat by +him, or moved about the room in his presence. + +"What a dear girl that is!" was his remark to her mother, many times +through the day. + +"She's a good girl," would simply reply Mrs. Arlington, speaking +almost without thought. Grace was a good girl; her mother felt this, +and from her heart her lips found utterance. + +It seemed, all through the day, that Grace could not do enough for +the old man's comfort. Once she drew him into her room, as he was +passing her door, to show him some pictures that she had painted. As +he sat looking at them, he noticed a small, handsomely bound Bible +on her table. Taking it up, he said-- + +"Do you read this, Grace?" + +"Oh, yes," she replied, "every day." And there was such a light of +goodness in her eyes, as she looked up into his face, that Mr. +Archer felt, for a moment or two, as if the countenance of an angel +was before him. + +"Why do you read it?" he continued after a pause. + +"It teaches us the way to heaven," said Grace. + +"And you are trying to live for heaven?" + +"I try to shun all evil as sin. Can I do more?" + +All the minister's creeds, and doctrines, and confessions of faith, +which he had ever considered the foundations upon which Christian +life was to be built, seemed, for a moment or two, useless lumber +before the simple creed of this loving, pure-hearted maiden. To seek +to disturb this state of innocence and obedience by moody polemics, +he felt, instinctively, to be wrong. + +"Perhaps not," was his half abstracted reply; "perhaps not. Yes, +yes; shun what is evil, and the Lord will adjoin the good." + +"Yes, yes; she _is_ a good girl, as her mother says," was frequently +repeated by Uncle Archer during the day, when he would think of +Grace. + +Evening came, and young and old began to gather in the parlours. The +minister was introduced to one and another, as they arrived, and was +much gratified with the respect and attention shown to him by all. +Grace soon drew around him three or four of her young friends, who +listened to what he had to say with an interest that gratified his +feelings. Nothing had been said to Grace of her uncle's prejudice +against dancing; she was, therefore, no little surprised to see the +sudden change in his manner, when she said to a young lady in the +group around him-- + +"Come! you must play some cotillions for us. We're going to have a +dance." + +After going with the young lady to the piano, and opening it for +her, Grace went back to her uncle, whose face she found deeply +clouded. + +"A'n't you well, uncle?" she asked, affectionately. + +"Oh yes, child, I am well enough in body," was replied. + +"But something troubles you, uncle--what is it?" + +By this time a number of couples were on the floor, and at the +moment, a young man came up to Grace, and said-- + +"Shall I have the pleasure of dancing with you this evening?" + +"Not in the first set," replied Grace; "but I will consider myself +engaged for the second, unless you can find a more agreeable +partner." + +"Do you dance, then?" asked Uncle Arthur, gravely, after the young +man had turned away. + +"Dance?" Grace was in doubt whether she had clearly understood him. + +"Yes, dear." + +"Certainly I do, uncle. You don't think there is harm in dancing?" + +"I do, my child. And, I am sure that, after what you said about +reading your Bible and trying to live for heaven, your admission +greatly surprises me. Religion and dancing! How can they have an +affinity?" + +"Good and evil can have no affinity," said Grace, in reply to this +remark. "Evil, I have always understood to be in a purpose to do +wrong. Now, I can dance with a good purpose; and, surely, then, +dancing cannot be evil to me." + +"Dance with a good purpose! How can you do that, my dear?" + +"I have often danced with the sole end of contributing my share to +the general enjoyment of a company." + +"Strange enjoyment!" sighed the old parson. + +"The timing of steps, and the orderly movement of the body in +concert with musical harmonies, often affects the mind with +exquisite delight, uncle. I have enjoyed this over and over again, +and have felt better and happier afterwards." + +"Child! child!" replied the old man; "how it grieves me to hear you +say this." + +"If there is sin in dancing, uncle," said Grace, seriously, "tell me +wherein it lies. Look at the countenances of those now on the floor; +do they express evil or good affection?--here, as I have been +taught, lies the sin." + +"It is a foolish waste of time," returned the old man; "a foolish +waste of time; and it is an evil thing to waste the precious time +that God has given to us." + +"We cannot always work or read. Both mind and body become wearied." + +"Then we have time for meditation." + +"But even thought will grow burdensome at times, and the mind sink +into listlessness and inactivity. Then we need recreation, in order +that we may afterwards both work and think better. Music and +dancing, in which mind and body find an innocent delight, effect +such a recreation. I know it is so in my case; and I know it is so +in the case of others. You do not say that dancing is a thing evil +in itself?" + +"No." This was admitted rather reluctantly. + +"Then if it be made to serve a good end, it is a good thing." + +"But is often made to serve evil," said the minister. + +"Then it is an evil thing," promptly answered Grace; "and so every +good gift of heaven may be made an evil thing to those who use it +for an evil purpose. You know it is said that a spider extracts +poison from the same flower where the bee gets honey. The deadly +nightshade draws life from the same rain and sunshine that nourishes +and matures the wheat, from which our bread is made. It is the +purpose, uncle, that makes a thing evil." + +"Could you pray on going to bed, after an evening spent in dancing?" +asked the old man, confident that he had put a question that would +clearly show his niece her error. To his surprise, Grace answered, +with a beautiful smile on her face-- + +"Oh, yes; and I have so prayed, many and many a time; not failing to +return thanks for the pleasure I had been permitted to enjoy." + +"Thanks for mere carnal pleasure!" + +"All things are good that are filled with good affections," said +Grace. "We are in a natural world, where all pleasure and pain +affect us in the natural degree most sensibly. We must come down, +that we may go up. We must let our natural joy and gladness have +free course, innocently, that they may be changed into a joy that is +higher and spiritual. Is it not so, uncle?" + +Now, the old man had not expected to find such a nice head on so +young a body; nor did he expect to be called upon to answer a +question, which came in a form that he was not prepared either to +negative or affirm. He had put all natural pleasures under the ban, +as flowing from the carnal mind; and, therefore, evil. As to filling +natural pleasures with spiritual life, that was a new position in +theology. He had preached against natural pleasures as evil, and, +therefore, to be abandoned by all who would lead a heavenly life. +Before he could collect his thoughts for an answer satisfactory to +himself, two or three ladies gathered around them, and he discreetly +forebore to make any further remarks on the subject. But he felt, as +may be supposed, very uncomfortable. + +After the first set was danced, one of the young ladies who had been +on the floor, and who had previously been introduced to the old +gentleman by Grace, came, with colour heightened by excitement, and +her beautiful face in a glow of pleasure, and sat down by his side. +Mr. Archer would have received her with becoming gravity, had it +been in his power to, do so; but the smile on her face was so +innocent, and she bent towards him so kindly and affectionately, +that he could not find it in his heart to meet her with even a +silent reproof. This young lady was really charming his ear, when a +gentleman came up to her, and said-- + +"Anna, I want you to dance with me." + +"With pleasure," replied the girl. "You will excuse me for a while, +Mr. Archer," said she, and she was about rising as she spoke, but +the old man placed his hand upon her arm, and gently detained her. + +"You're not going to leave me?" + +"No, not if my company will give you any pleasure," replied the +young girl, with a gentle smile. "Please excuse me." This she +addressed to the person who had asked her to dance. He bowed, and +turned away. + +"I am glad to keep you by my side," said Mr. Archer, with some +seriousness in his manner. + +"And I am glad to stay here," was promptly answered, "if my company +will give you any pleasure. It does me good to contribute to others' +happiness." + +The old man was touched by this reply, for he felt that it was from +the heart. It sounded strangely to his ears from the lips of one who +had just been whirling in the mazy dance. + +"There is no real pleasure in any thing selfish," he remarked. "Yes, +you say truly, it does us good to contribute to the happiness of +others." + +"For this reason," said Anna, "I like dancing as a social +recreation. It is a mutual pleasure. We give and receive enjoyment." + +The old minister's face grew serious. + +"I have been to three or four parties," continued the young girl, +"where dancing was excluded, under some strange idea that it was +wrong; and I must say that so much evil-speaking and censoriousness +it has never been my lot to encounter in any company. The time, +instead of being improved as a season of mental and bodily +recreation, was worse than wasted. I know that I was worse instead +of better on returning from each of these companies, for I +insensibly fell into the prevailing spirit." + +"That was very bad, certainly," remarked Mr. Archer, before whose +mind arose some pictures of social gatherings, in which had +prevailed the very spirit condemned by his young companion. "But I +don't see how you are going to make dancing a sovereign remedy for +the evil." + +"It is not a sovereign remedy," was answered, "but it is a concert +of feeling and action, in which the mind is exhilarated, and in +which a mutual good-will is produced. You cannot dance without being +pleased, to a greater or less extent, with your partners on the +floor. Often and often have I had a prejudice against persons wear +off as we moved together in the dances, and I have afterwards +discovered in them good qualities to which I was before blinded." + +"Uncle," said Grace to the old man, just at this moment, bending to +his ear as she spoke, and taking his hand in hers,--"come! I want to +show you something." + +Grace drew him into the adjoining parlour, where another set was on +the floor. Two children, her younger brother and sister, were in it. + +"Now, just look at Ada and Willy," whispered Grace in his ear, as +she brought him in view of the young dancers. Ada was a lovely +child, and the old uncle's heart had already taken her in. She was a +graceful little dancer, and moved in the figures with the lightness +of a fairy. It was a beautiful sight, and in the face of all the +prejudices which half a century had worn into him, he felt that it +was beautiful. As he looked upon it, he could keep the dimness from +his eyes only by a strong effort. + +"Is there evil in that, uncle?" asked Grace, drawing her arm within +that of the old man's. + +"Is it good?" he replied. + +"Yes; it is good," said Grace, emphatically, as she lifted her eyes +to his. + +Mr. Archer did not gainsay her words. He at least felt that it was +not evil, though he could not admit that it was good. + +Spite of the dancing, which soon ceased to offend the good old man, +he passed a pleasant evening. Perhaps, he enjoyed the Christmas +party as much as any one there. + +Nothing was said, on the next day, by any one, on the subject of +dancing; though Mr. Archer, especially, thought a great deal about +the matter. Some ideas had come into his mind that were new there, +and he was pondering them attentively. On the third day of his +arrival, he had a severe attack of rheumatism, from which he +suffered great pain, besides a confinement to his room for a couple +of weeks. During that time, the untiring devotion and tender +solicitude of Grace touched the old man's heart deeply. When the +pain had sufficiently abated to let his mind attain composure, she +sought to interest him in various ways. Sometimes she would read to +him by the hour; sometimes she would entertain him with cheerful +conversation; and sometimes she would bring in one or two of her +young friends whom he had met at the Christmas party. + +With these, he had more than one discussion, in his sick room, on +the subject of dancing, and the old minister found these gay young +girls rather more than a match for him. During a discussion of this +kind, Grace left the room. In her absence, one of her companions +said to him-- + +"Grace is a good girl." + +A quick light went over the old man's countenance; and he replied, +with evident feeling-- + +"Good? Yes; I look at her, sometimes, and think her almost an +angel." + +"She dances." + +The old man sighed. + +"She is a Christian." + +"I wish there were more such in the world," said he, unhesitatingly. + +"And yet she dances." + +"My dear child," said Mr. Archer, turning with an affectionate smile +towards his young interlocutor, "don't take such an advantage of me +in the argument." + +"Then it is settled," was continued, in triumph, "that if dancing is +not a Christian grace, a maiden may dance and yet be a Christian?" + +"God bless you, and keep you from all the evil of the world," said +the old man, fervently, as he took the young girl's hand and pressed +it between his own. "It may be all right! it may be all right!" + +Grace came back at the moment, and he ceased speaking. + +From that time the venerable minister said no more on the subject, +and it is but fair to believe that when he returned home he had very +serious doubts in regard to the sin of dancing, which had once been +as fairly held as if it had been an article in the Confession of +Faith. + + + + + + +IS SHE A LADY? + + + + + +"MRS. TUDOR is a perfect lady," said my wife, Mrs. Sunderland, to me +one day, after having received a visit from the individual she +named. + +"She may have the manners of a lady," I replied, "when abroad; but +whether she be a lady at home or not, is more than I can tell. It is +easy to put on the exterior of a lady; but to be a lady is a very +different thing." + +"All that is true enough; but why do you connect such remarks with +the name of Mrs. Tudor? Do you know any thing to the contrary of her +being a lady?--a lady at home, as you say, for instance?" + +"No, I can't say that I do; but, somehow or other, I am a little +inclined to be doubtful of the genuineness of Mrs. Tudor's claims to +being a lady. Once or twice I have thought that I perceived an air +of superciliousness to persons who were considered inferior. This is +a rigid but true test of any one's claims to being either a lady or +a gentleman. No true lady is less careful of the feelings of those +below her than she is of those who are upon an equality." + +"But you only thought you saw this," said Mrs. Sunderland. + +"True, and my thought may be only a thought," I returned, "and +unjust to Mrs. Tudor, who may be as much of a lady at home and under +all circumstances, as she appears to be when abroad." + +"What she is, I have not the least doubt," said my wife. + +I never altogether fancied this Mrs. Tudor, although Mrs. Sunderland +liked her very much. Before we built our new house, Mrs. Tudor did +not know us, notwithstanding the fact that our pews had adjoined for +two or three years. But after that event, Mrs. Tudor found out that +we had an existence, and became uncommonly gracious with my wife. + +Not long after I had spoken out my mind in regard to Mrs. Tudor, +that lady, in company with her husband, paid us a visit one evening, +and after sitting an hour, invited us to come around and take tea +with them on a certain evening in the ensuing week. + +When the time came, as we had accepted the invitation, we went. We +found about a dozen persons assembled, half of whom were entire +strangers to us. Among these I soon perceived that there were two or +three who, in the eyes of Mrs. Tudor, were a little superior to her +other guests. On our entrance, we were introduced to them first, and +with particular formality, our lady hostess pronouncing their names +in a very distinct manner, while her articulation of ours was so low +that they were scarcely, if at all, heard. During the hour that +passed before tea was announced, Mrs. Tudor confined her attentions +almost exclusively to these two or three individuals, who were +evidently persons of more consequence than the rest of us. So +apparent was all this, that most of those who were in the room, +instead of joining in the conversation, sat looking at the more +favoured guests. + +"They must be persons of some importance," I could not help saying +to my wife in an undertone, in which her quick ear detected +something of sarcasm. + +"For mercy's sake, Mr. Sunderland!" she replied, in a voice that +only reached my own ears, "don't make remarks upon any of the +company." + +If she had said, "It is not gentlemanly to do so," she could not +have conveyed what she wished to utter more distinctly than she did. + +I felt the force of her reproof, but could not resist the +inclination I felt to reply. + +"We have so good an example of what is polite and genteel, that it +is not to be wondered if we profit a little." + +"Mr. Sunderland! Why, will you!" My wife seemed distressed. + +I said no more on the subject, content with having let her know that +I was noticing the conduct of her perfect lady. I believe, if I +could have seen her thoughts, that among them I would have detected +this one among the rest; that it was not exactly fair and +gentlemanly in me to remind her so promptly of the error she had +probably committed in her estimate of Mrs. Tudor's character. + +Fully absorbed as she was in showing attentions to her more favoured +guests, Mrs. Tudor did not perceive the cold, uncomfortable, +unsocial feeling that had crept over the rest of her company. + +Tea was at last announced. I felt relieved at this, and so, I +perceived, did most of those around me. At the tea-table I expected +to find Mrs. Tudor more general in her attentions. But no. These +favoured ones were served first, and "Mrs.--, will you have this?" +and "Mrs.--, will you have that?" were almost exclusively confined +to three persons at the table. Mr. Tudor, I remarked, noticed this, +for he exerted himself in order to make all the rest feel at ease, +which he succeeded in doing to some extent. + +Waiting upon the table was a female domestic, a young girl of good +manners and appearance. To her Mrs. Tudor uniformly spoke in a way +that must have been felt as peculiarly disagreeable. The blandest +smile; and the most winning expression of voice, would instantly +change, when Lucy was addressed, to a cold, supercilious look, and +an undertone of command. Several times I saw the blood mount to the +girl's forehead, as a word or tone more marked and offensive than +usual would be given so loudly as to be perceived by all. Once or +twice, at such times, I could not resist a glance at Mrs. +Sunderland, which was generally met with a slight, rebuking +contraction of her brow. + +Through the efforts of Mr. Tudor, who certainly did his part well, +the tea-table party was a good deal more social than had been the +individuals composing it while in the parlour. The favoured guests, +notwithstanding the incense offered them by our hostess, appeared in +no way to esteem themselves as better than the rest, and, as soon as +opportunity was afforded them, tried to be at home with every one. +Once more in the parlours, and arranged there by a kind of social +crystallization, I perceived that Mrs. Tudor was sitting between two +of the ladies who were considered by her worthy of the most marked +attention. There she sat during nearly the whole of the evening, +except when refreshments were introduced, when she accompanied Lucy +round the room, occasionally speaking to her in a tone of offensive +command or cutting rebuke. + +For one, I was glad when the time came to go home, and I rather +think that all present were as much relieved, in getting away, as I +was. + +"What is your opinion now?" said I, triumphantly, to Mrs. +Sunderland, the moment we were in the street. + +"My opinion," she replied, a little sharply, "is, that you did not +act, in several instances, this evening, like a gentleman!" + +"I did not!" I spoke with affected surprise only; for I thought I +knew what it was she meant. + +"No, I am sorry to say that you did not. Nothing could have been +more improper than the notice you took of what was passing. A true +gentlemanly spirit would have led you to look away from, rather than +at the weakness of our hostess." + +"Look away from it, Mrs. Sunderland! How could I do that, pray? It +was before my eyes all the time." + +"You ought to have shut your eyes, then." + +"Nonsense." + +"Very far from it, Mr. Sunderland! You are ready enough to see the +faults of other people!"--(in this, I must confess, my wife did not +err very much)--"but quite willing to shut your eyes to your own. +Now, I think you acted just as bad as Mrs. Tudor; and, in fact, +worse." + +"Worse! You are complimentary, Mrs. Sunderland." + +"I can't help it if I am. Mrs. Tudor was led by her weakness to +conduct herself in an unlady-like manner; but you, with her example +before your eyes, and in a mood to reflect, permitted yourself to +remark upon her conduct in a way calculated to give pain." + +"In the name of wonder, what are you driving at, Mrs. Sunderland? No +one but you heard any remark I made." + +"I wish I could think so." + +"Who, besides yourself, heard what I said?" + +"Mr. Tudor." + +"Impossible!" + +"He was sitting very near us when you so far forgot yourself as to +notice, verbally, what was passing, and I am well satisfied, either +heard distinctly what was said, or enough to enable him to +understand the nature of all you said." + +"You are surely mistaken," said I, feeling a good deal mortified, +and perceiving much more clearly than I did before the nature of my +offence against good manners and propriety of conduct. + +"I wish I were. But I fear I am not. I know that Mr. Tudor looked +around toward you suddenly, and I noticed that he was much more +particular afterward in his attentions to the rest of the company. +At table, you may have yourself remarked this." + +"Yes, I noticed it." + +"And yet, even at the table, when he was doing his best, you again +hurt his feelings." + +"Me!" + +"Yes, you. When Mrs. Tudor spoke harshly to Lucy, or did something +or other that you thought out of the way, you must look your sarcasm +at me, notwithstanding the eyes of her husband were upon you." + +"But he didn't see me, then." + +"Yes, but he did. I saw him looking directly at you." + +"Oh, no! it cannot be." I was unwilling to believe this. + +"I wish it were not so for my husband's sake," returned Mrs. +Sunderland. "But the evidence of my senses I generally find it +necessary to credit." + +I must own that I felt considerably cut up, or cut down, whichever +is the most mortifying state to be in. To look and whisper my +censure in company, I had thought no great harm; but now that I had +found I had been discovered in the act, I had a mortifying sense of +its impropriety. + +"Well, anyhow," said I, rallying myself, and speaking with some +lightness of tone, "it is clear that Mrs. Tudor is no lady, for all +you thought her such a pattern-card of gentility." + +"And I have not the least doubt," retorted my wife, "that it is +equally clear to Mr. Tudor that you are no gentleman. So, on that +score, the account stands fairly balanced between the two families." + +This was a pretty hard hit; and I felt a little "riled up," as the +Yankees say, but I concluded that the uttering of a few sharp +sayings to my wife, under the circumstances, would not prove my +claim to being a gentleman, especially against the facts of the +case; so I cooled down, and walked home rather silently, and in not +the best humour with myself. + +On the next morning, I took up a little book from my wife's bureau, +and sat down to look over it while waiting for the breakfast bell. +It was a book of aphorisms, and I opened at once to a page where a +leaf was turned down. A slight dot with a pencil directed my eyes to +a particular line, which read-- + +"_He who lives in a glass house shouldn't throw stones_." + +I am not sure that Mrs. Sunderland turned down that leaf in the +book, and marked the sentiment for my especial benefit; though I +strongly suspected her. At any rate, I deemed it best not to ask the +question. + + + + + + +GOING INTO MOURNING. + + + + + +THE weeping mother bent over the beautiful form of innocent +childhood--beautiful still, though its animating spirit had +fled--and kissed the pale cheek of her dear departed one. When she +lifted her head, a tear glistened on the cold brow of the babe. Then +the father looked his last look, and, with an effort, controlled the +emotion that wellnigh mastered him. The sisters came next, with +audible sobs, and cheeks suffused with tears. A moment or two they +gazed upon the expressionless face of their dear little playfellow, +and then the coffin lid was shut down, while each one present +experienced a momentary feeling of suffocation. + +As the funeral procession came out of the door, and the family +passed slowly across the pavement to the carriages, a few gossiping +neighbours--such as, with no particular acquaintance with the +principal members of a household, know all about the internal +management of every dwelling in the square--assembled close by, and +thus discoursed of the events connected with the burying. + +"Poor Mrs. Condy," said one, "how can she bear the loss of that +sweet little fellow!" + +"Other people have lost children as well as she," remarked a +sour-looking dame. "Rich people, thank heaven! have to feel as well +as we poor folks." + +No one seemed disposed to reply to this; and there was a momentary +silence. + +"They've got up mourning mighty quick," said a third speaker. +"Little Willie only died yesterday morning." + +"It's most all borrowed, I suppose," responded a fourth. + +"Hardly," said the other. + +"Yes, but I know that it is, though," added the individual who made +the allegation of borrowing; "because, you see, Lucy, the +chambermaid, told me last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her to +borrow her sister's black bombazine, and that the girls were all +hard enough put to it to know where to get something decent to +attend the funeral in." + +"No doubt, they thought more about mourning dresses, than they did +about the dead child," remarked the cynic of the group. + +"It's a shame, Mrs. Grime, for you to talk in that way about any +one," replied the woman who had first spoken. + +"It's the truth, Mrs. Myers," retorted Mrs. Grime. "By their works +ye shall know them. You needn't tell me about people being so +dreadful sorry at the loss of friends when they can make such a +to-do about getting black to wear. These bombazine dresses and long +black veils are truly enough called mourning--they are an excellent +counterfeit, and deceive one half of the world. Ah, me! If all the +money that was spent buying in mourning was given to the poor, there +would be less misery in the world by a great deal." + +And while the little group, attracted by the solemn pageant, thus +exercised the privilege of independent thought and free discussion, +carriage after carriage was filled and moved off, and soon the whole +passed out of sight. + +It was near the hour of twilight when the afflicted family returned, +and after partaking of supper, sparingly, and in silence, the +different members retired to their chambers, and at an early hour +sought relief to their troubled thoughts in sleep. + +On the next morning, during the breakfast hour, Mrs. Condy broke the +oppressive silence by asking of her husband the sum of fifty +dollars. + +"What for, Sarah?" said Mr. Condy, looking into her face with an +expression of grave inquiry. + +"It's the middle of the week now, you know, and therefore no time is +to be lost in getting mourning. At any rate, it will be as much as a +bargain to get dresses made by Sunday. Jane and Mary will have to go +out this morning and buy the goods." + +Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed lost in deep and +somewhat painful thought. At length, he said, looking his wife +steadily in the face, but with a kind expression on his +countenance-- + +"Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing show of mourning +cannot make us any the more sorry for the loss of our dear little +one," and his voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word, +and the moisture dimmed his eyes. + +"Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to put +on mourning," said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea of +non-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented to +her mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrow +awakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest. "How can you +think of such a thing?" + +"Why, father, it would never do in the world," added the eldest +daughter, Jane. "I should feel condemned as long as I lived, if I +were to neglect so binding a duty." + +"And what would people say?" asked Mary, whose simple mind perceived +at once the strongest motive that operated in favour of the mourning +garments. + +"I don't see, Mary," replied Mr. Condy, "that other people have any +thing at all to do in this matter. We know our grief to be real, and +need no artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black garments +cannot add to our sorrow." + +But Mrs. Condy shook her head, and the daughters shook their heads, +and the end of the matter was, Mr. Condy's purse-strings were +loosened, and the required amount of money handed over. + +After thinking a good deal about the matter, Mary suggested, about +an hour after breakfast, that it would not look well for her and +Jane to be seen shopping, and Willie only buried the day before; and +it was agreed to send for Ellen Maynard, who always sewed in the +family when there was much to do, and get her to make the purchases. +This determined, Lucy was despatched for Ellen. + +The reader will transfer his mental vision to a small but neat and +comfortable room in another part of the town. The inmates are two. +One, with a pale, thin face, and large bright eyes, reclines upon a +bed. The other is seated by a window, sewing. + +"I think I will try to sit up a little, Ellen," said the former, +raising herself up with an effort. + +"I wouldn't, if I were you, Margaret," replied the other, dropping +her work and coming to the bedside. "You had better keep still, or +that distressing cough may come back again." + +"Indeed, sister," returned the invalid, "I feel so restless that it +is almost impossible to lie here. Let me sit up a little while, and +I am sure I shall feel better." + +Ellen did not oppose her further, but assisted her to a large +rocking-chair, and, after placing a pillow at her back, resumed her +work. + +"I can't help thinking of Mrs. Condy's little Willie," said Ellen, +after a pause. "Dear little fellow! How much they must all feel his +loss." + +"He is better off, though," remarked the sister; but even that idea +could not keep her eyes from glistening. The thought of death always +referred itself to her own near approach to the thick shadows and +the dark valley. + +"Yes, he is with the angels," was the brief response of Ellen. + +Just at that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Condy's chambermaid +entered. + +"Good morning, Lucy, how do you do?" said Ellen, rising. "How is +Mrs. Condy and all the family?" + +"They are very well, Miss Ellen," replied Lucy. "Mrs. Condy wants +you to come there this morning and go and buy the mourning for the +family. And then they want you to come and sew all this week, and +part of next, too." + +Ellen glanced at her sister, involuntarily, and then said-- + +"I am afraid, Lucy, that I can't go. Margaret is very poorly, and I +don't see how I can possibly leave her." + +"O yes, you can go, Ellen," said Margaret. "You can fix me what I +want, and come home every night. I'll do well enough." + +Ellen paused a few moments, and then turning to Lucy, said-- + +"Tell Mrs. Condy that I will come round in the course of half an +hour." + +Lucy went away, and Ellen, after sitting irresolute for some +minutes, said-- + +"I don't think, sister, that I can do any thing more for Mrs. Condy +than her shopping. I wouldn't like to leave you alone. You know how +bad your cough is sometimes." + +"I'll do well enough through the day, Ellen," replied Margaret, +though her feeble voice and languid manner told too plainly that she +could not do very well at any time. "You know that our rent will be +due in two weeks, and that you haven't yet got enough to pay it." + +"That is very true," said Ellen, somewhat sadly. "Anyhow, I'll go to +Mrs. Condy's, and will think about the matter." + +After dressing herself, Ellen insisted that her sister should lie +down. She then placed a small table close to the bed, upon which was +set a few articles of food, and a vial of cough medicine. After +charging Margaret to keep very quiet, and to try to sleep, she +turned upon her a look of deep and yearning affection, and then +hurried away. + +The sight of Ellen, and the necessary allusion to the recent +afflicting loss, caused the tears of the mother and sisters to flow +afresh. But these were soon dried up, and so much were the minds of +each interested in the idea of the mourning dresses, and in the +necessary directions to be given, that few traces of the real +affliction which had wrung their hearts remained, for the time, +perceptible. The orders received by Ellen were promptly filled at +the store where the family usually purchased their dry-goods, and +the various articles sent home. The bundles arrived about the same +time that Ellen returned. Then came a careful examination of the +shades of colour and quality of the goods. These proving +satisfactory, Jane said-- + +"And now, Ellen, mother's dress, and Mary's, and mine must be done +this week. We'll all help you. Mary and I can make the skirts and +bind cord for you, and do a good deal on the dresses. You can get +them done, easily enough?" + +"Indeed, Miss Jane," replied Ellen, and her voice was not steady, "I +hardly know what to say. Sister is worse than she has ever been; and +I don't see how I can leave her alone. She coughs terribly; and is +so weak, that she can only sit up a little while. She has failed +very fast within a week." + +"But you know this is a case particularly pressing," said Mrs. +Condy. "There seems to be no help for it. There is no one we can get +but you, now; and you know we give you all our sewing, and depend on +you. Lucy says that Margaret is willing to have you come, and says +that she can get on very well." + +Ellen paused a moment or two, and then replied, with an expression +of sadness in her voice--"I will make the dresses for you, Mrs. +Condy, but you must all help me as much as you can, so that I can +get home every evening. It won't do to let Margaret be alone all +night, for her cough is much worse in the evening, and before day in +the morning." + +Neither Mrs. Condy nor her daughters replied to this. Mentally, they +deemed it impossible for Ellen to go home at night. But they did not +wish to say so. It was Wednesday, and all the afternoon was consumed +in cutting, fitting, and basting the dresses. Night came, and Ellen, +after tea, prepared to go home. Some slight objection was made; but +she was resolute. It was some time after dark when she came in sight +of her chamber window. It showed that there was no light within. +Instantly she sprang forward, and soon bounded up the stairs and +into the room. + +"Margaret!--How are you, Margaret?" she said, pressing up to the +bedside, and putting her hand upon the forehead of her sister. It +was cold and clammy. A violent fit of coughing prevented a reply. A +light was obtained in a few minutes, and showed the countenance of +Margaret slightly distorted from difficult breathing, and her +forehead perceptibly corrugated. + +"You are worse, sister!" exclaimed Ellen, kissing her damp forehead. + +"No, not much worse. My cough is only a little troublesome," was the +quiet reply. + +"You have had no supper yet, of course," said Ellen. "A cup of hot +tea will do you good." + +This was soon prepared, and Margaret (sic) eat with a keen appetite. +After tea, she was much better. The cold perspiration ceased, and +her skin became dry and warm. A brief conversation passed between +the sisters, when Margaret fell off into a pleasant slumber. On the +next morning, with much reluctance and many misgivings as to whether +it were right to leave her sister alone, Ellen went to Mrs. Condy's. +Before going, however, she asked the kind neighbour who lived below, +to look in occasionally, and to see that Margaret had a good cup of +tea for dinner. This was promised, and she felt lighter at heart. + +Ellen worked hard through that day; but when night came, with all +the help she had received, the first dress was not finished. Unless +one dress were finished each day, the three could not be done by +Sunday; and this not being the case on the first day, how could she +go home that night? for if she worked a few hours longer, the +garment would be ready for the wearer. + +"I must run home a little while," said she, mentally, "and then come +back again. But how can I leave Margaret all night? She may die!" +The thought caused her to shudder. + +At length she said to Mrs. Condy-- + +"I can't leave sister all night, madam. But I can take your dress +home with me, and by sitting up late, I can easily finish it. You +will have no objection to my doing this, I hope?" + +Mrs. Condy paused a moment, for she did feel an objection to this +being done; but humanity prevailed, and she consented. This relieved +Ellen's mind very greatly, and she bundled up the dress, and hurried +away with it. Margaret appeared more feeble than she was in the +morning; and her cough was very troublesome. It was nearly twelve +o'clock when the last stitch was taken in Mrs. Condy's dress. And +then Ellen retired to her bed. But it was a long time before she +could sleep. The nervous excitement, induced by protracted labour +and great anxiety of mind, drove slumber from her eyelids for many +hours. Towards morning she fell into a troubled sleep, and awoke at +daylight unrefreshed. + +This day was Friday, and Jane's dress came next in turn. Ellen +applied herself with even greater assiduity than she had used on the +preceding day; but, as Jane's dress required more trimming, and less +assistance was given her on it, the progress she made towards its +completion was in no way promising. After dinner her head began to +ache, and continued its throbbing, almost blinding pain, until the +evening twilight began to fall, and the darkness compelled her to +suspend her work. + +"Why, Ellen, Jane's dress isn't nigh done," said Mary, in tones of +surprise, on coming into the room, at the moment Ellen laid the +garment aside. + +"No, but I'll finish it to-night," replied Ellen. + +"Why, it'll take you pretty much all night to finish this," she +said, lifting and examining her sister's dress. "How in the world +did you get so behindhand, Ellen?" + +"This is a harder dress to make than your mother's," replied Ellen; +"and besides having had less help on it, my head has ached very +badly all the afternoon." + +Without seeming to notice the last reason given, Mary said-- + +"Well, if you can possibly get it done to-night, Ellen, you must do +so. It would never answer in the world not to have all the dresses +done by to-morrow night." + +"I will have it done," was the brief reply, made in a low tone. + +Jane's dress was taken home that night, unfinished by full six or +seven hours' work. As Ellen had feared, she found Margaret suffering +much from her cough. After preparing some food for her sister, whose +appetite still remained good, she drank a cup of tea, and then sat +down to work upon the mourning garment. Towards midnight, Margaret, +who had fallen asleep early in the evening, began to grow restless, +and to moan as if in pain. Every now and then, Ellen would pause in +her work and look towards the bed, with an anxious countenance; and +once or twice she got up, and stood over her sister; but she did not +awake. It was three o'clock when the last stitch was taken, and then +Margaret's cough had awakened her, and she seemed to suffer so much +from that and from difficult breathing, that Ellen, even after lying +down, did not go to sleep for an hour. It was long after sunrise +when she awoke. + +"Must you go to-day, too?" inquired Margaret, looking into her +sister's face anxiously, on seeing her, after the hastily prepared +breakfast had been eaten, take up her bonnet and shawl. + +"Yes, Margaret, I must go to-day. There is one more dress to be +made, and that must be done. But after to-day, I won't go out +anywhere again until you are better." + +"I don't think I shall ever be better again, Ellen," said the sick +girl. "I am getting so weak; and I feel just as if I shouldn't stay +here but a little while. You don't know how strange I feel +sometimes. Oh, I wish you didn't have to go out to-day!" And she +looked so earnestly into the face of her sister, that the tears +sprung into Ellen's eyes. + +"If I can persuade them to put this last dress off until next week, +and then get some one else to make it, I will," said the sister: +"but if I can't, Margaret, try and keep up your spirits. I'll ask +Mrs. Ryland, down-stairs, to come and sit with you a little while at +a time through the day; and so if I can't; get off, you won't be +altogether without company." + +"I wish you would, sister, for I feel so lonesome sometimes," +replied Margaret, mournfully. + +Mrs. Ryland consented, for she was a kind-hearted woman, and liked +the sisters, and Ellen hurried away to Mrs. Condy's. + +"You are very late this morning, ain't you?" said Mary Condy, as +Ellen entered with Jane's finished dress. + +"I am a little late, Miss Mary, but I sat up until three o'clock +this morning, and overslept myself in consequence." + +"Well, you'll finish my dress to-day, of course?" + +"Really, Miss Mary, I hardly know what to say about it. Sister is so +very poorly, that I am almost afraid to leave her alone. Can't you +in any way put yours off until next week? I have been up nearly all +night for two nights, and feel very unwell this morning." And +certainly her pale cheeks, sunken eyes, and haggard countenance +fully confirmed her statement. + +"It will be impossible, Ellen," was Mary's prompt and positive +response. "I must go to church to-morrow, and cannot, of course, go +out, without my black dress." + +With a sigh, Ellen sat down and resumed her needle. After a while +she said-- + +"Miss Mary, I cannot finish your dress, unless you and your sister +help me a good deal." + +"Oh, we'll do that, of course," replied Mary, getting up and leaving +the room. + +It was nearly eleven o'clock before Mary thought of helping Ellen +any, and then two or three young ladies came in to pay a visit of +condolence, and prevented her. Tears were shed at first; and then +gradually a more cheerful tone of feeling succeeded, and so much +interested were the young ladies in each other's company, that the +moments passed rapidly away, and advanced the time near on to the +dinner hour. It was full three o'clock before Mary and Jane sat +themselves down to help Ellen. The afternoon seemed almost to fly +away, and when it was nightfall, the dress was not half finished. + +"Will it be possible to get it done to-night?" asked Mrs. Condy. + +"It will be hard work, madam," said Ellen, whose heart was with her +sister. + +"Oh, it can be finished," said Mary, "if we all work hard for two or +three hours. The fact is, it must be done. I wouldn't miss having it +for the world." + +With a sigh, Ellen turned again to her work; though feeble nature +was wellnigh sinking under the task forced upon her. It was past +eleven o'clock when the dress was finished, and Ellen prepared to go +home to her sister. + +"But you are not going home to-night?" said Mr. Condy, who was now +present. + +"O yes, sir. I haven't seen sister since morning, and she's very +ill." + +"What is the matter with your sister?" asked Mr. Condy, in a kind +tone. + +"I'm afraid she's got the consump--" It vas the first time Ellen had +attempted to utter the word, and the sound, even though the whole of +it remained unspoken, broke down her feelings, and she burst into +tears. + +Instinctively, Mr. Condy reached for his hat and cane, and as he saw +Ellen recover, by a strong effort, her self-possession, he said-- + +"It is too late for you to go home alone, Ellen, and as we cannot +ask you, under the circumstances, to stay all night, I will go with +you." + +Ellen looked her gratitude, for she was really afraid to go into the +street alone at that late hour. As they walked along, Mr. Condy, by +many questions, ascertained that Ellen had been almost compelled to +work day and night to make up mourning garments for his family, and +to absent herself from her sick sister, while she needed her most +careful attention. Arrived at her humble dwelling, his benevolent +feelings prompted him to ascertain truly the condition of Margaret, +for his heart misgave him that her end was very nigh. + +On entering the chamber, they found Mrs. Ryland, the neighbour who +lived below, supporting Margaret in the bed, who was gasping for +breath as if every moment in fear of suffocation. Ellen sprung +forward with a sudden exclamation, and, taking Mrs. Ryland's place, +let the head of her sister fall gently upon her bosom. Mr. Condy +looked on for a moment, and then hastily retired. As soon as he +reached home, he despatched a servant for the family physician, with +a special request to have him visit Ellen's sister immediately. He +then went into his wife's chamber, where the daughters, with their +mother, were engaged in looking over their new morning apparel. + +"I'm afraid," said he, "that you have unintentionally been guilty of +a great wrong." + +"How?" asked Mrs. Condy, looking up with sudden surprise. + +"In keeping Ellen here so late from her sister, who is, I fear, at +this moment dying." + +"Is it possible!" exclaimed the mother and daughters with looks of +alarm. + +"It is, I fear, too true. But now, all that can be done is to try +and make some return. I want you, Mary, and your mother, to put on +your bonnets and shawls and go with me. Something may yet be done +for poor Margaret. I have already sent for the doctor." + +On the instant Mrs. Condy and Mary prepared themselves, and the +former put into a small basket some sugar and a bottle of wine, and +handed it to her husband, who accompanied them, at that late hour, +to the dwelling of the two sisters. On entering the chamber, they +found no one present but Ellen and Margaret. The latter still +reclined with her head on her sister's bosom, and seemed to have +fallen into a gentle slumber, so quiet did she lay. Ellen looked up +on the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Condy, with Mary; and they saw that +her eyes were filled with tears, and that two large drops stood upon +her cheeks. She made a motion for them to be seated, but did not +rise from her place on the bed, nor stir by the least movement of +her body the still sleeper who leaned upon her breast. For nearly +fifteen minutes, the most profound silence reigned throughout the +chamber. The visitors understood the whole scene, and almost held +their breaths, lest even the respiration, that to them seemed +audible, should disturb the repose of the invalid. At the end of +this time the physician entered, and broke the oppressive stillness. +But neither his voice nor his step, nor the answers and explanations +which necessarily took place, restored Margaret to apparent +consciousness. After feeling her pulse for some time, he said-- + +"It will not be necessary to disturb her while she sleeps; but if +she becomes restless, a little wine may be given. In the morning I +will see her early," and he made a movement to go. + +"Doctor," said Ellen, looking him eagerly in the face, "tell me +truly--is she not dying?" + +For a moment the physician looked upon the earnest, tearful girl, +and read in her countenance that hope and fear held there a painful +struggle. + +"While there is life, there is hope," he replied briefly. + +"Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it," she urged appealingly. +"If my sister is going to die, I wish to know it." + +"I have seen many recover who appeared nearer to death than she is," +he replied, evasively. "As I have just said, where there is life, +there is hope." + +Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at the answer, and the +doctor went down-stairs, accompanied by Mr. Condy. The two remained +some minutes in conversation below, and when the latter returned he +found his wife and daughter standing by the bedside, and Margaret +exhibiting many signs of restlessness. She kept rolling her head +upon the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily. In a few +minutes she began to moan and mutter incoherently. After a little +while her eyes flew suddenly open, and she pronounced the name of +Ellen quickly. + +"I am here, Margaret," replied the sister, bending over her. + +"Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long?" she said, looking up +into her face half reproachfully, and seeming not to observe the +presence of others. "I was so lonesome all day; and then at night I +waited and waited, and you didn't come home! You won't go away any +more--will you, Ellen?" + +"No--no, sister, I won't leave you again," said Ellen, soothingly, +her tears starting afresh. + +The words of Margaret smote upon the heart of Mary, whose great +eagerness to get the mourning dress done, so that she could go out +on Sunday, had been the cause of Ellen's long detention from her +sick sister. She hastily turned away from the bed, and seated +herself by the window, As she sat there, the image of her +baby-brother came up vividly before her mind, and with it the +feeling of desolation which the loss of a dear one always occasions. +And with this painful emotion of grief, there arose in her mind a +distinct consciousness that, since her thoughts had become +interested in the getting and making up of her mourning dress, she +had felt but little of the keen sorrow that had at first overwhelmed +her, and that now came back upon her mind like a flood. As she sat +thus in silent communion with herself, she was enabled to perceive +that, in her own mind, there had been much less of a desire to +commemorate the death of her brother, in putting on mourning, than +to appear before others to be deeply affected with grief. She saw +that the black garments were not to remind herself of the dear +departed one, but to show to others that the babe was still +remembered and still mourned. In her present state of keen +perception of interior and true motives, she felt deeply humbled, +and inwardly resolved that, on the morrow, she would not go out for +the too vain purpose of displaying her mourning apparel. Just as +this resolution became fixed in her mind, a sudden movement at the +bedside arrested her attention, and she again joined the group +there. + +Her heart throbbed with a sudden and quicker pulsation, as her eye +fell upon the face of Margaret. A great change had passed upon it; +death had placed his sign there, and no eye could misunderstand its +import. Rapidly now did the work of dissolution go on, and just as +the day dawned, Margaret sank quietly away into that deep sleep that +knows no earthly waking. + +After rendering all such offices as were required, Mrs. Condy and +Mary went home, the latter promising Ellen that she would return and +remain with her through the day. At the breakfast table, Mr. Condy +so directed the conversation as to give the solemn event they had +been called to witness its true impression upon the minds of his +family. Before the meal closed, it was resolved that Jane and Mary +should go to the humble dwelling of Ellen, and remain with her +through the day; and that after the funeral, the expense of which +Mr. Condy said he would bear, Ellen should be offered a permanent +home. + +The funeral took place on Monday, and was attended by Mr. Condy's +family. On the next day Mrs. Condy called on Ellen, and invited her +to come home with her, and to remain there. The offer was thankfully +accepted. + +During the day, and while Ellen, assisted by Jane and Mary, was at +work on black dresses for the younger children, Mr. and Mrs. Condy +came into the room: the latter had a piece of bombazine in her hand. + +"Here is a dress for you, Ellen," she said, handing her the piece of +bombazine. + +Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of surprise; her face +flushed an instant, and then grew pale. + +"You will want a black dress, Ellen," resumed Mrs. Condy, "and I +have bought you one." + +"I do not wish to put on black," said she, with a slightly +embarrassed look and an effort to smile, while her voice trembled +and was hardly audible. + +"And why not, Ellen?" urged Mrs. Condy. + +"I never liked black," she replied evasively. "And, anyhow, it would +do no good," she added somewhat mournfully, as if the former reason +struck her on the instant as being an insufficient one. + +"No, child, it wouldn't do any good," said Mr. Condy, tenderly and +with emotion. "And if you don't care about having it, don't take +it." + +Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and Ellen again bent +silently over her work. The hearts of all present were touched by +her simple and true remark, "that it would do no good," and each one +respected her the more, that she shunned all exterior manifestation +of the real sorrow that they knew oppressed her spirits. And never +did they array themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought of +Ellen's unobtrusive grief did not come up and chide them. + + + + + + +IF THAT WERE MY CHILD! + + + + + +"AH, good evening, Mr. Pelby! Good evening, Mr. Manly! I am glad to +see you! Mrs. Little and I were just saying that we wished some +friends would step in." + +"Well, how do you do this evening, Mrs. Little?" said Mr. Pelby, +after they were all seated. "You look remarkably well. And how is +your little family?" + +"We are all bright and hearty," Mrs. Little replied, smiling. +"Little Tommy has just gone off to bed. If you had come in a few +minutes sooner, you would have seen the dear little fellow. He's as +lively and playful as a cricket." + +"How old is he now?" asked Mr. Manly. + +"He will be two years and six months old the twenty-third of next +month." + +"Just the age of my Edward. How much I should like to see him!" + +"I don't think he has gone to sleep yet," said the fond mother of an +only child, rising and going off to her chamber. + +"You bachelors don't sympathize much with us fathers of families," +said Mr. Little, laughing, to Mr. Pelby. + +"How should we?" + +"True enough! But then you can envy us; and no doubt do." + +"It's well enough for you to think so, Little. But, after all, I +expect we are the better off." + +"Don't flatter yourself in any such way, Mr. Pelby. I've been"-- + +"Here's the darling!" exclaimed Mrs. Little, bounding gayly in the +room at the moment, with Tommy, who was laughing and tossing his +arms about in delight at being taken up from his bed, into which he +had gone reluctantly. + +"Come to pa, Tommy," said Mr. Little, reaching out his hands. "Now +ain't that a fine little fellow?" he continued, looking from face to +face of his two friends, and showing off Tommy to the best possible +advantage that his night-gown would permit. And he was a sweet +child; with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and clustering golden +ringlets. + +"Indeed he is a lovely child," Mr. Manly said earnestly. + +"A very fine child," Mr. Pelby remarked, mechanically. + +"We'll match him with the town!" broke in Mrs. Little, unable to +keep down the upswelling, delighted affection of her heart. + +By this time, Tommy's bewildered senses were restored, and he began +to look about him with lively interest. His keen eyes soon detected +Mr. Pelby's bright gold chain and swivel, and well knowing that it +betokened a watch, he slid quickly down from his father's lap, and +stood beside the knee of the nice bachelor visitor. + +"He's not afraid of strangers," said Mrs. Little, her eyes sparkling +with pleasure, as they followed every movement of her child. + +"Tee watch," said Tommy. + +"It'll bite" said Mr. Pelby. + +"Tee watch!" reiterated the child, grasping the chain. + +With not the best grace in the world, Mr. Pelby drew out his +beautiful gold lever, and submitted it to the rude grasp, as he +thought, of Tommy. + +"Oh, ma! ma! Tee watch! tee watch!" cried the child, almost wild +with delight--at the same time advancing towards her as far as the +chain would permit, and then tugging at it as hard as he could, to +the no small discomfort of the visitor, who, seeing no movement of +relief on the part of either parent, was forced to slip the chain +over his head, and trust Tommy to carry his favourite time-keeper to +his mother. + +"Tommy'll be a watch-maker, I expect. Nothing pleases him so much as +a watch," remarked the father. + +Mr. Pelby did not reply. He dared not, for he felt that, were he to +trust himself to speak, he should betray feelings that politeness +required him to conceal. + +"There!" suddenly exclaimed the mother, catching eagerly at the +watch, which Tommy had dropped, and recovering it just in time to +save it from injury. + +"Gim me! gim me! gim me!" cried Tommy, seizing her hands, and +endeavouring to get possession again of the valuable timepiece, +which had escaped so narrowly. + +"There, now," said Mrs. Little, yielding to the child's eager +importunity, and permitting him again to take possession of the +watch. "But you must hold it tighter." + +Mr. Pelby was on nettles; but he dared not interfere. + +"Open it," said Tommy, endeavouring to loose the hinge of the case +with his tiny thumb-nail. + +"Oh, no; you mustn't open it, Tommy." + +"Open it!" resumed Tommy, in a higher and more positive tone. + +"I can't open it," said the mother, pretending to make an earnest +effort to loose the case. + +"_O-pen--it!_" screamed the child, in a loud angry tone. + +"Here, take it to Mr. Pelby, he will open it for you." And the watch +was again intrusted to Tommy's care, who bore it, and, as fortune +would have it, safely too, to its owner. + +Of course, Mr. Pelby could do no better, and so he displayed the +jewels and internal arrangement of his skeleton lever to the curious +gaze of the child. At first, Tommy was well pleased to look alone: +but soon the ends of his fingers itched to touch, and touch he did, +quite promptly; and, of course, Mr. Pelby very naturally drew back +the hand that held the watch; and just as naturally did Tommy +suddenly extend his and grasp the receding prize. With some +difficulty, Mr. Pelby succeeded in disengaging the fingers of the +child, and then hastily closing the watch, he slipped it into his +pocket. + +"There, it's gone!" said he. + +"Tee de watch!" replied Tommy. + +"It's gone clear off." + +"Tee de watch!" said Tommy more emphatically. + +"Here, come see mine," said the father. + +"No," replied the child, angrily. + +Mr. Pelby, to quiet Tommy, now took him upon his lap, and called his +attention to a large cameo breast-pin. This pleased him at once, and +he amused himself with pulling at it, and sadly rumpling the +visitor's snow-white bosom. Next he began to dive into his pockets, +revealing pen-knife, tooth-pick, etc. etc. This was worse than to +let him have the watch; and so, as a lesser evil, the gold lever was +again drawn from its hiding-place. The little fellow was once more +wild with delight. + +But Pelby was so evidently annoyed, that Mr. Little could not help +observing it; and he at length said to his wife-- + +"Hadn't you better take Tommy up-stairs, my dear? He is too +troublesome." + +Mr. Pelby had it on his tongue's end to say, "Oh, no, he don't +trouble me at all!" But he was afraid--not to tell a falsehood--but +that the child would be suffered to remain; so he said nothing. + +"Come, Tommy," said Mrs. Little, holding out her hands. + +"No!" replied the child emphatically. + +"Come." + +"No!" still louder and more emphatic. + +"Yes, come, dear." + +"No, I won't!" + +"Yes, but you must!" Mrs. Little said, taking hold of him. + +At this, Tommy clung around the neck of Mr. Pelby, struggling and +kicking with all his might against the effort of his mother to +disengage him; who finally succeeded, and bore him, screaming at the +top of his voice, from the room. + +"If that were my child," said Mr. Pelby, after they had left the +house, "I'd half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him! I +never saw such an ill-behaved, graceless little rascal in my life!" + +"Children are children, Mr. Pelby," quietly remarked his auditor, +Mr. Manly, who had half a dozen "little responsibilities" himself. + +"Hard bargains at the best, I know. But then I have seen +good-behaved children; and, if parents would only take proper pains +with them, all might be trained to good behaviour and obedience. If +I had a child, it would act different, I know, from what that one +did this evening." + +"Old bachelors' children, you know," Mr. Manly said, with a smile. + +"O yes, I know. But silly adages don't excuse neglectful parents," +replied Mr. Pelby, a little touched at the allusion. + +"That is true, Mr. Pelby. But what I meant you to understand by the +remark was, that those who have no children of their own are too +often wanting in a due consideration and forbearance towards those +of other people. I have quite a house full and I know that I take +great pains with them, and that the true management of them costs me +much serious consideration; and yet I have known some of mine to act +much worse than Tommy Little did this evening." + +"Well, all I have to say in the matter, friend Manly, is this:--If I +had a child that acted as rudely as that young one did to-night, I +would, teach him a lesson that he would not forget for the next +twelve months." + +"You don't know what you would do, if you had a child, Pelby. An +active, restless child requires patience and continued forbearance; +and, if it should be your lot to have such a one, I am sure your +natural affection and good sense would combine to prevent your +playing the unreasonable tyrant over it." + +"Perhaps it would. But I am sure I should not think my natural +affection and good sense pledged to let my child do as he pleased, +and annoy every one that came to the house." + +"You were exceedingly annoyed, then, to-night?" + +"Annoyed! Why, I could hardly sit in my chair towards the last. And +when the young imp came pawing me and climbing over me, I could +hardly help tossing him off of my lap upon the floor." + +"You did not seem so much worried. I really thought you were pleased +with the little fellow." + +"Now, that is too bad, Manly! I'd as lief had a monkey screwing and +twisting about in my lap. It was as much as I could do to be civil +to either his father or mother for suffering their brat to tease me +as he did. First, I must be kissed by his bread and butter mouth; +and then he made me suffer a kind of martyrdom in fear of my elegant +lever. A watch is not the thing for a child to play with, and I am +astonished at Little for suffering his young one to annoy a visitor +in that way." + +"Blame them as much as you please, but don't feel unkindly towards +the child," said Manly. "He knows no better. Your watch delighted +him, and of course he wanted it, and any attempt to deprive him of +it was very naturally resisted. His parents are fond of him--and +well they may be--and pet him a great deal; thus he has learned to +expect every visitor to notice him, and also expects to notice and +make free with every visitor. This is all very natural." + +"Natural enough, and so is it to steal; but that don't make it +right. Children should be taught, from the first, to be reserved in +the presence of strangers, and never to come near them unless +invited. If I had one, I'll be bound he wouldn't disgrace me as +Little's child did him to-night." + +"We'll see, one of these days, perhaps," was Manly's quiet remark; +and the friends parted company. + +Ten years often make a great difference in a man's condition, +habits, and feelings. Ten years passed away, and Mr. Pelby was a +husband, and the father of three interesting children,--indulged, of +course, and "pretty considerably" spoiled, yet interesting withal, +and, in the eyes of their father, not to be compared for beauty, +good manners, etc. with any other children inhabiting the same city. +William, the oldest boy, had not quite completed his sixth year. +Emma, a rosy-cheeked, chubby little thing, when asked her age, could +say-- + +"Four years old last June." + +And Henry was just the age that Tommy Little was when he so terribly +annoyed Mr. Pelby. Now, as to Henry's accomplishments, they were +many and various. He could be a good boy when he felt in a pleasant +humour, and could storm, and fret, and pout in a way so well +understood by all parents, that it would be a work of supererogation +to describe it here. But strange mutation of disposition!--Mr. Pelby +could bear these fits of perverseness with a philosophy that would +have astonished even himself, could he have for a moment realized +his former state of mind. When Henry became ill-tempered from any +cause, he had, from loving him, learned that to get into an +ill-humour also would be only adding fuel to flame; and so, on such +occasions, he sought affectionately to calm and soothe his ruffled +feelings. If Henry, or Emma, or William, from any exuberance of +happy feelings, were noisy or boisterous, he did not think it right +to check them suddenly, because he was a little annoyed. He tried, +rather, to feel glad with them--to partake of their joy. In short, +Mr. Pelby had grown into a domestic philosopher. A wife and two or +three children do wonders sometimes! + +Now it so happened about this time, that Mr. and Mrs. Manly and Mr. +and Mrs. Little were spending an evening with Mr. and Mrs. Pelby. +William and Emma had their suppers prepared for them in the kitchen, +and then, as usual, were put to bed; but "dear little Henry" was so +interesting to his parents, and they naturally thought must be so +interesting to their company, that he was allowed to sit up and come +to the tea-table. As Mrs. Pelby had no dining-room, the back parlour +was used for this purpose, and so all the progressive arrangements +of the tea-table were visible. + +"Oh, dinne weddy! dinne weddy!" cried little Henry, sliding down +from the lap of Mrs. Little--whose collar he had been rumpling so +that it was hardly fit to be seen--as soon as he saw the cloth laid; +and, running for a chair, he was soon perched up in it, calling +lustily for "meat." + +"Oh, no, no, Henry! dinner not ready yet!" said Mrs. Pelby, starting +forward, and endeavouring to remove the child from his seat; but +Henry screamed and resisted. + +"Oh, let him sit, mother!" interfered Mr. Pelby. "The little dear +don't understand waiting as we do." + +"Yes, but, father, it is time that he had learned. Tea isn't near +ready yet; and if he is allowed to sit here, he will pull and haul +every thing about," responded Mrs. Pelby. + +"Oh, never mind, mother! Give him some meat, and he'll be quiet +enough. I never like to see little folks made to wait for grown +people; they cannot understand nor appreciate the reason of it." + +And so little Henry was permitted to remain at the table, picking +first at one thing and then at another, much to the discomfort and +mortification of his mother, who could not see in this indulgence +any thing very interesting. Mrs. Little was relieved, although her +collar was disfigured for the evening past hope. + +After a while tea was announced, and the company sat down. + +"Me toffee! me toffee!" cried Henry, stretching out his hands +impatiently. "Me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma!" as soon as Mrs. Pelby +was seated before the tea-tray, and had commenced supplying the cups +with cream and sugar. + +"Yes--yes--Henry shall have coffee. H-u-s-h--there--be quiet--that's +a good boy," she said, soothingly. But-- + +"Me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma!" was continued without +a moment's cessation. "Ma! ma! ma! me toffee! me toffee!" + +"Yes, yes, yes! you shall have coffee in a moment; only be patient, +child!" Mrs. Pelby now said, evidently worried; for Henry was crying +at the top of his voice, and impatiently shaking his hands and +vibrating his whole body. + +But he ceased not a moment until his mother, before any of the +company had been served, prepared him a cup of milk and warm water, +sweetened. Placing his lips to the edge of the cup, Henry drank the +whole of it off before the table was more than half served. + +"Me more toffee, ma!" + +Mrs. Pelby paused, and looked him in the face with an expression of +half despair and half astonishment. + +"Me more toffee, ma!" continued Henry. + +"Yes, wait a moment, and I'll give you more," she said. + +"More toffee, ma!" in a louder voice. + +"Yes, in a moment." + +"More toffee, ma!" This time louder and more impatiently. + +To keep the peace, a second cup of milk and water had to be +prepared, and then Mrs. Pelby finished waiting on her company. But +it soon appeared that the second cup had not really been wanted, for +now that he had it, the child could not swallow more than two or +three draughts. His amusement now consisted in playing in his saucer +with a spoon, which being perceived by his mother, she said to him-- + +"There now, Henry, you didn't want that, after all. Come, let me +pour your tea back into the cup, and set the cup on the waiter, or +you will spill it;" at the same time making a motion to do what she +had proposed. But-- + +"No! no! no!" cried the child, clinging to the saucer, and +attempting to remove it out of his mother's reach. This he did so +suddenly, that the entire contents were thrown into Mrs. Little's +lap. + +"Bless me, Mrs. Little!" exclaimed Mrs. Pelby, really distressed; +"that is too bad! Come, Henry, you must go away from the table;" at +the same time attempting to remove him. But he cried-- + +"No! no! no!" so loud, that she was constrained to desist. + +"There, let him sit; he won't do so any more," said Mr. Pelby. "That +was very naughty, Henry. Come, now, if you want your tea, drink it, +or let me put it away." + +Henry already knew enough of his father to be convinced that when he +spoke in a certain low, emphatic tone, he was in earnest; and so he +very quietly put his mouth down to his saucer and pretended to +drink, though it would have been as strange as pouring water into a +full cup without overflowing it, as for him to have let any more go +down his throat, without spilling a portion already there out at the +top. + +Tea was at last over, and Mrs. Little, on rising from the table, had +opportunity and leisure to examine her beautiful silk, now worn for +the second time. Fortunately, it was of a colour that tea would not +injure, although it was by no means pleasant to have a whole front +breadth completely saturated. Mrs. Pelby made many apologies, but +Mr. Pelby called it a "family accident," and one of a kind that +married people were so familiar with, as scarcely to be annoyed by +them. + +"Come here, Henry," said he. "Just see what you have done! Now go +kiss the lady, and say, 'I'm sorry.'" + +The little fellow's eye brightened, and going up to Mrs. Little, he +pouted out his cherry lips, and, as she kissed him, he said, with a +suddenly-assumed demure, penitent look--"I torry." + +"What's Henry sorry for?" asked Mrs. Little, instantly softening +towards the child, and taking him on her knee. + +"I torry," he repeated, but in a much livelier tone, at the same +time that he clambered up and stood in her lap, with his little +hands again crushing her beautiful French collar. + +"Come here, Henry," said Mr. Manly, who saw that Mrs. Little was +annoyed at this; but Henry would not move. He had espied a comb in +Mrs. Little's head, and had just laid violent hands upon it, +threatening every moment to flood that lady's neck and shoulders +with her own dishevelled tresses. + +"Come and see my watch," said Mr. Manly. + +This was enough. Henry slid from Mrs. Little's lap instantly, and in +the next minute was seated on Mr. Manly's knee, examining that +gentleman's time-keeper. Between opening and shutting the watch, +holding it first to his own and then to Mr. Manly's ear, Henry spent +full a quarter of an hour. Even that considerate, kind-hearted +gentleman's patience began to be impaired, and he could not help +thinking that his friend, Mr. Pelby, ought to be thoughtful enough +to relieve him. Once or twice he made a movement to replace the +watch in his pocket, but this was instantly perceived and as +promptly resisted. The little fellow had an instinctive perception +that Mr. Manly did not wish him to have the watch, and for that very +reason retained possession of it long beyond the time that he would +have done if it had been fully relinquished to him. + +At last he tired of the glittering toy, and returned to annoy Mrs. +Little; but she was saved by the appearance of a servant with fruit +and cakes. + +"Dim me cake! dim me cake!" cried Henry, seizing hold of the +servant's clothes, and pulling her so suddenly as almost to cause +her to let fall the tray that was in her hands. + +To keep the peace, Henry was helped first of all to a slice of +pound-cake. + +"Mo' cake," he said, in a moment or two after, unable to articulate +with any degree of distinctness, for his mouth was so full that each +cheek stood out, and his lips essayed in vain to close over the +abundant supply within. Another piece was given, and this +disappeared as quickly. Then he wanted an apple, and as soon as he +got one, he cried for a second and a third. Then-- + +But we will not chronicle the sayings and doings of little Henry +further; more than to say, that he soon, from being allowed to sit +up beyond the accustomed hour, grew fretful and exceedingly +troublesome, preventing all pleasant intercourse between the +visitors and visited, and that at nine o'clock he was carried off +screaming to his bed. + +"If that were my child," said Mr. Little, pausing at his own door, +and turning round to Mr. and Mrs. Manly, who had accompanied his +wife thus far on their way home, "I would teach him better manners, +or I would half kill him. I never saw such an ill-conditioned little +imp in my life!" + +"Children are children, you know," was Mr. Manly's quiet reply. + +"Yes, but children may be made to behave, if any pains at all be +taken with them. It is really unpardonable for any one to let a +child like that worry visitors as he did us this evening." + +"Few children of his age, Mr. Little, unless of a remarkably quiet +and obedient disposition, are much better than Pelby's little boy." + +"As to that, Mr. Manly," broke in Mrs. Little, "there's our Tommy, a +fine boy of twelve, as you know. He never acted like that when he +was a child. I never had a bit of trouble with him when we had +company. We could bring him down into the parlour when he was of +Henry Pelby's age, and he would go round and kiss all the ladies so +sweetly, and then go off to bed, like a little man, as he was." + +"Ah, Mrs. Little, you forget," said Mr. Manly, laughing. + +"Oh, no, indeed, Mr. Manly. I don't forget these things. We could do +any thing with Tommy at his age, and it was because we managed him +rightly. You can do any thing with children you please." + +"Indeed, then, Mrs. Little, it is more than I can say," remarked +Mrs. Manly. "If my children could be made any thing at all of, they +would have been different from what they are; and yet, I believe," +she added, with a feeling of maternal pride, "they are not the worst +children I have ever seen." + +"Good-nights" were now exchanged, and, after Mr. and Mrs. Manly had +walked a few steps, the former said, + +"Well, this is a curious world that we live in. Ten years ago, +Pelby, then a trim bachelor, as nice and particular as any of the +tribe, said, in allusion to Tommy Little--'If that were my child, I +would half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him!'" + +"He did?" + +"Yes, those were his very words. We were spending an evening at Mr. +and Mrs. Little's, and when Tommy was about two years old or so; and +Pelby was terribly annoyed by him. He acted pretty much as all +children do--that is, pretty much as Henry did to-night. But Pelby +couldn't endure it with any kind of patience." + +"Ha! ha!" laughed out Mrs. Manly, in spite of herself. "How +completely the tables have been turned!" + +"Yes, they have been, certainly. But what is a little singular is, +that neither of the parties concerned seem to have gained wisdom by +their experience. Pelby forgets how other people's children once +annoyed him, and Mr. and Mrs. Little seem to be entirely unconscious +that their paragon was very much like all other little boys when he +was only about two or three years old. For my part, I think we +should be careful not to let our children trespass upon visitors. +None can feel the same interest in them that we do, or exercise the +same forbearance towards their faults. Faults they all have, which +need especial care in their correction; and these should be suffered +to appear as rarely as possible under circumstances which prevent a +salutary check being placed upon them. For this reason, you know, we +have made it a matter of concert not to let our children, while, too +young to understand something of propriety, be present, but for a +very short time, when we had company. The moment they become rude or +too familiar, they were quietly taken from the room." + +"Yes; and knowing as I do," said Mrs. Manly, "how very restless some +children with active minds are, I am never disposed to look with +unfavourable eyes upon any, even when wild, turbulent, and heedless. +They act as they feel; and so far as evil affections show +themselves, we know they are inherited, and that it is not in the +power of the child to remove them. We should then be moved, it seems +to me, with a purer affection for them; with something of pity mixed +with our love, and, instead of suffering their wrong actions to +repulse us, we should draw towards them with a desire to teach them +what is wrong, and impart to them some power to overcome evil." + +"If all thought as you, Mary," said Mr. Manly, as they gained their +own doors, "we should hear no one railing out against other people's +children, while he indulged his own. A fault too common with most +parents." + +I WILL! + +"YOU look sober, Laura. What has thrown a veil over your happy +face?" said Mrs. Cleaveland to her niece, one morning, on finding +her alone and with a very thoughtful countenance. + +"Do I really look sober?" and Laura smiled as she spoke. + +"You did just now. But the sunshine has already dispelled the +transient cloud. I am glad that a storm was not portended." + +"I felt sober, aunt," Laura said, after a few moments--her face +again becoming serious. + +"So I supposed, from your looks." + +"And I feel sober still." + +"Why?" + +"I am really discouraged, aunt." + +"About what?" + +The maiden's cheek deepened its hue, but she did not reply. + +"You and Harry have not fallen out, like a pair of foolish lovers, I +hope." + +"Oh, no!" was the quick and emphatic answer. + +"Then what has troubled the quiet waters of your spirit? About what +are you discouraged?" + +"I will tell you," the maiden replied. "It was only about a week +after my engagement with Harry that I called upon Alice Stacy, and +found her quite unhappy. She had not been married over a few months. +I asked what troubled her, and she said, 'I feel as miserable as I +can be.' 'But what makes you miserable, Alice?' I inquired. 'Because +William and I have quarrelled--that's the reason,' she said, with +some levity, tossing her head and compressing her lips, with a kind +of defiance. I was shocked--so much so, that I could not speak. 'The +fact is,' she resumed, before I could reply, 'all men are arbitrary +and unreasonable. They think women inferior to them, and their wives +as a higher order of slaves. But I am not one to be put under any +man's feet. William has tried that trick with me, and failed. Of +course, to be foiled by a woman is no very pleasant thing for one of +your lords of creation. A tempest in a teapot was the consequence. +But I did not yield the point in dispute; and, what is more, have no +idea of doing so. He will have to find out, sooner or later, that I +am his equal in every way; and the quicker he can be made conscious +of this, the better for us both. Don't you think so?' I made no +answer. I was too much surprised and shocked. 'All men,' she +continued, 'have to be taught this. There never was a husband who +did not, at first, attempt to lord it over his wife. And there never +was a woman, whose condition as a wife was at all above that of a +passive slave, who did not find it necessary to oppose herself at +first, with unflinching perseverance.' + +"To all this, and a great deal more, I could say nothing. It choked +me up. Since then, I have met her frequently, at home and elsewhere, +but she has never looked happy. Several times she has said to me, in +company, when I have taken a seat beside her, and remarked that she +seemed dull, 'Yes, I am dull; but Mr. Stacy, there, you see, enjoys +himself. Men always enjoy themselves in company--apart from their +wives, of course.' I would sometimes oppose to this a sentiment +palliative of her husband; as, that, in company, a man very +naturally wished to add his mite to the general joyousness, or +something of a like nature. But it only excited her, and drew forth +remarks that shocked my feelings. Up to this day, they do not appear +to be on any better terms. Then, there is Frances Glenn--married +only three months, and as fond of carping at her husband for his +arbitrary, domineering spirit, as is Mrs. Stacy. I could name two or +three others, who have been married, some a shorter and some a +longer period, that do not seem to be united by any closer bonds. + +"It is the condition of these young friends, aunt, that causes me to +feel serious. I am to be married in a few weeks. Can it be possible +that my union with Henry Armour will be no happier, no more perfect +than theirs? This I cannot believe. And yet, the relation that Alice +and Frances hold to their husbands, troubles me whenever I think of +it. Henry, as far as I have been able to understand him, has strong +points in his character. From a right course of action,--or, from a +course of action that he thinks right,--no consideration, I am sure, +would turn him. I, too, have mental characteristics somewhat +similar. There is, likewise, about me, a leaven of stubbornness. I +tremble when the thought of opposition between us, upon any subject, +crosses my mind. I would rather die--so I feel about it--than ever +have a misunderstanding with my husband." + +Laura ceased, and her aunt, who was, she now perceived, much +agitated, arose and left the room without speaking. The reason of +this to Laura was altogether unaccountable. Her aunt Cleaveland, +always so mild, so calm, to be thus strongly disturbed! What could +it mean? What could there be in her maidenly fears to excite the +feelings of one so good, and wise, and gentle? An hour afterwards, +and while she yet sat, sober and perplexed in mind, in the same +place where Mrs. Cleaveland had left her, a domestic came in and +said that her aunt wished to see her in her own room. Laura attended +her immediately. She found her calm and self-possessed, but paler +than usual. "Sit down beside me, dear," Mrs. Cleaveland said, +smiling faintly, as her niece came in. + +"What you said this morning, Laura," she began, after a few moments, +"recalled my own early years so vividly, that I could not keep down +emotions I had deemed long since powerless. The cause of those +emotions it is now, I clearly see, my duty to reveal--that is, to +you. For years I have carefully avoided permitting my mind to go +back to the past, in vain musings over scenes that bring no pleasant +thoughts, no glad feelings. I have, rather, looked into the future +with a steady hope, a calm reliance. But, for your sake, I will draw +aside the veil. May the relation I am now about to give you have the +effect I desire! Then shall I not suffer in vain. How vividly, at +this moment, do I remember the joyful feelings that pervaded my +bosom, when, like you, a maiden, I looked forward to my wedding-day. +Mr. Cleaveland was a man, in many respects, like Henry Armour. +Proud, firm, yet gentle and amiable when not opposed;--a man with +whom I might have been supremely happy;--a man whose faults I might +have corrected--not by open opposition to them--not by seeming to +notice them--but by leading him to see them himself. But this course +I did not pursue. I was proud; I was self-willed; I was unyielding. +Elements like these can never come into opposition without a victory +on either side being as disastrous as the defeats. We were married. +Oh, how sweet was the promise of my wedding-day! Of my husband I was +very fond. Handsome, educated, and with talents of a high order, +there was every thing about him to make the heart of a young wife +proud. Tenderly we loved each other. Like days in Elysium passed the +first few months of our wedded life. Our thoughts and wishes were +one. After that, gradually a change appeared to come over my +husband. He deferred less readily to my wishes. His own will was +more frequently opposed to mine, and his contentions for victory +longer and longer continued. This surprised and pained me. But it +did not occur to me, that my tenaciousness of opinion might seem as +strange to him as did his to me. It did not occur to me, that there +would be a propriety in my deferring to him--at least so far as to +give up opposition. I never for a moment reflected that a proud, +firm-spirited man, might be driven off from an opposing wife, rather +than drawn closer and united in tenderer bonds. I only perceived my +rights as an equal assailed. And, from that point of view, saw his +conduct as dogmatical and overbearing, whenever he resolutely set +himself against me, as was far too frequently the case. + +"One day,--we had then been married about six months,--he said to +me, a little seriously, yet smiling as he spoke, 'Jane, did not I +see you on the street, this morning?' 'You did,' I replied. 'And +with Mrs. Corbin?' 'Yes.' My answer to this last question was not +given in a very pleasant tone. The reason was this. Mrs. Corbin, a +recent acquaintance, was no favourite with my husband; and he had +more than once mildly suggested that she was not, in his view, a fit +associate for me. This rather touched my pride. It occurred to me, +that I ought to be the best judge of my female associates, and that +for my husband to make any objections was an assumption on his part, +that, as a wife, I was called upon to resist. I did not, on previous +occasions, say any thing very decided, contenting myself with +parrying his objections laughingly. This time, however, I was in a +less forbearing mood. 'I wish you would not make that woman your +friend' he said, after I had admitted that he was right in his +observation. 'And why not, pray?' I asked, looking at him quite +steadily. 'For reasons before given, Jane,' he replied, mildly, but +firmly. 'There are reports in circulation touching her character, +that I fear are'--'They are false!' I interrupted him. 'I know they +are false!' I spoke with a sudden excitement. My voice trembled, my +cheek burned, and I was conscious that my eye shot forth no mild +light. 'They are true--I know they are true!' Mr. Cleaveland said, +sternly, but apparently unruffled. 'I don't believe it,' I retorted. +'I know her far better. She is an injured woman.' + +"'Jane,' my husband now said, his voice slightly trembling, 'you are +my wife. As such, your reputation is as dear to me as the apple of +my eye. Suspicion has been cast upon Mrs. Corbin, and that suspicion +I have good reason for believing well founded. If you associate with +her--if you are seen upon the street with her, your fair fame will +receive a taint. This I cannot permit.' + +"There was, to my mind, a threat contained in the last sentence--a +threat of authoritative intervention. At this my pride took fire. + +"'Cannot permit!' I said, drawing myself up. 'What do you mean, Mr. +Cleveland?' + +"The brow of my husband instantly flushed. He was silent for a +moment or two. Then he said, with forced calmness, yet in a +resolute, meaning tone-- + +"'Jane, I do not wish you to keep company with Mrs. Corbin.' + +"'I WILL!' was my indignant reply. + +"His face grew deadly pale. For a moment his whole frame trembled as +if some fearful struggle were going on within. Then he quietly +arose, and, without looking at me, left the room. Oh! how deeply did +I regret uttering those unhappy words the instant they were spoken! +But repentance came too late. For about the space of ten minutes, +pride struggled with affection and duty. At the end of that time the +latter triumphed, and I hastened after my husband to ask his +forgiveness for what I said. But he was not in the parlours. He was +not in the house! I asked a servant if she had seen him, and +received for reply that he had gone out. + +"Anxiously passed the hours until nightfall. The sad twilight, as it +gathered dimly around, threw a deeper gloom over my heart. My +husband usually came home before dark. Now he was away beyond his +accustomed hour. Instead of returning gladly to meet his young wife, +he was staying away, because that young wife had thrown off the +attractions of love and presented to him features harsh and +repulsive. How anxiously I longed to hear the sound of his +footsteps--to see his face--to hear his voice! The moment of his +entrance I resolved should be the moment of my humble confession of +wrong--of my faithful promise never again to set up my will +determinedly in opposition to his judgment. But minute after minute +passed after nightfall--hours succeeded minutes--and these rolled on +until the whole night wore away, and he came not back to me. As the +gray light of morning stole into my chamber, a terrible fear took +hold of me, that made my heart grow still in my bosom--the fear that +he would never return--that I had driven him off from me. Alas! this +fear was too nigh the truth. The whole of that day passed, and the +next and the next, without any tidings. No one had seen him since he +left me. An anxious excitement spread among all his friends. The +only account I could give of him, was, that he had parted from me in +good health, and in a sane mind. + +"A week rolled by, and still no word came. I was nearly distracted. +What I suffered, no tongue can tell, no heart conceive. I have often +wondered that I did not become insane but from this sad condition I +was saved. Through all, my reason, though often trembling, did not +once forsake me. It was on the tenth day from that upon which we had +jarred so heavily as to be driven widely asunder, that a letter came +to me, post-marked New York, and endorsed 'In haste.' My hands +trembled so that I could with difficulty break the seal. The +contents were to the effect that my husband had been lying for +several days at one of the hotels there, very ill, but now past the +crisis of his disease, and thought by the physician to be out of +danger. The writer urged me, from my husband, to come on +immediately. In eight hours from the time I received that letter, I +was in New York. Alas! it was too late; the disease had returned +with double violence, and snapped the feeble thread of life. I never +saw my husband's living face again." + +The self-possession of Mrs. Cleaveland, at this part of her +narrative, gave way. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed +violently, while the tears came trickling through her fingers. + +"My dear Laura," she resumed, after the lapse of many minutes, +looking up as she spoke, with a clear eye, and a sober, but placid +countenance, "it is for your sake that I have turned my gaze +resolutely back. May the painful history I have given you make a +deep impression upon your heart; let it warn you of the sunken rock +upon which my bark foundered. Avoid carefully, religiously avoid +setting yourself in opposition to your husband; should he prove +unreasonable or arbitrary, nothing is to be gained, and every thing +lost by contention. By gentleness, by forbearance, by even suffering +wrong at times, you will be able to win him over to a better spirit: +an opposite course will as assuredly put thorns in your pillow as +you adopt it. Look at the unhappy condition of the friends you have +named; their husbands are, in their eyes, exacting, domineering +tyrants. But this need not be. Let them act truly the woman's part. +Let them not oppose, but yield, and they will find that their +present tyrants' will become their lovers. Above all, never, under +any circumstances, either jestingly or in earnest, say '_I will_,' +when you are opposed. That declaration is never made without its +robbing the wife of a portion of her husband's confidence and love; +its utterance has dimmed the fire upon many a smiling hearth-stone." + +Laura could not reply; the relation of her aunt had deeply shocked +her feelings. But the words she had uttered sank into her heart; and +when her trial came--when she was tempted to set her will in +opposition to her husband's, and resolutely to contend for what she +deemed right, a thought of Mrs. Cleaveland's story would put a seal +upon her lips. It was well. The character of Henry Armour too nearly +resembled that of Mr. Cleaveland: he could illy have brooked a +wife's opposition; but her tenderness, her forbearance, her devoted +love, bound her to him with cords that drew closer and closer each +revolving year. She never opposed him further than to express a +difference of opinion when such a difference existed, and its +utterance was deemed useful; and she carefully avoided, on all +occasions, the doing of any thing of which he in the smallest degree +disapproved. The consequence was, that her opinion was always +weighed by him carefully, and often deferred to. A mutual confidence +and a mutual dependence upon each other gradually took the place of +early reserves, and now they sweetly draw together--now they +smoothly glide along the stream of life blessed indeed in all their +marriage relations. Who will say that Laura did not act a wise part? +Who will say that in sacrificing pride and self-will, she did not +gain beyond all calculation? No one, surely. She is not her +husband's slave, but his companion and equal. She has helped to +reform and remodel his character, and make him less arbitrary, less +self-willed, less disposed to be tyrannical. In her mild +forbearance, he has seen a beauty more attractive far than lip or +cheek, or beaming eye. + +Instead of looking upon his wife as below him, Henry Armour feels +that she is his superior, and as such he tenderly regards and +lovingly cherishes her. He never thinks of obedience from her, but +rather studies to conform himself to her most lightly-spoken wish. +To be thus united, what wife will not for a time sacrifice her +feelings when her young self-willed husband so far forgets himself +as to become exacting! The temporary loss will turn out in the +future to be a great gain. + + + + + + +A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. + + + + + +"THERE come the children from school," said Aunt Mary, looking from +the window. "Just see that Clarence! he'll have Henry in the gutter. +I never saw just such another boy; why can't he come quietly along +like other children? There! now he must stop to throw stones at the +pigs. That boy'll give you the heart-ache yet, Anna." + +Mrs. Hartley made no reply, but laid aside her work quietly and left +the room to see that their dinner was ready. In a few minutes the +street-door was thrown open, and the children came bounding in full +of life, and noisy as they could be. + +"Where is your coat, Clarence?" she asked, in a pleasant tone, +looking her oldest boy in the face. + +"Oh, I forgot!" he replied, cheerfully; and turning quickly, he ran +down stairs, and lifting his coat from where, in his +thoughtlessness, he had thrown it upon the floor, hung it up in its +proper place, and then sprang up the stairs. + +"Isn't dinner ready yet?" he said, with fretful impatience, his +whole manner changing suddenly. "I'm hungry." + +"It will be ready in a few minutes, Clarence." + +"I want it now. I'm hungry." + +"Did you ever hear of the man," said Mrs. Hartley, in a voice that +showed no disturbance of mind, "who wanted the sun to rise an hour +before its time?" + +"No, mother. Tell me about it, won't you?" + +All impatience had vanished from the boy's face. + +"There was a man who had to go upon a journey; the stage-coach was +to call for him at sun-rise. More than an hour before it was time +for the sun to be up, the man was all ready to go, and for the whole +of that hour he walked the floor impatiently, grumbling at the sun +because he did not rise. 'I'm all ready, and I want to be going,' he +said. 'It's time the sun was up, long ago.' Don't you think he was a +very foolish man?" + +Clarence laughed, and said he thought the man was very foolish +indeed. + +"Do you think he was more foolish than you were just now for +grumbling because dinner wasn't ready?" + +Clarence laughed again, and said he did not know. Just then Hannah, +the cook, brought in the waiter with the children's dinner upon it. +Clarence sprang for a chair, and drew it hastily and noisily to the +table. + +"Try and see if you can't do that more orderly, my dear," his mother +said, in a quiet voice, looking at him, as she spoke, with a steady +eye. + +The boy removed his chair, and then replaced it gently. + +"That is much better, my son." + +And thus she corrected his disorderly habits, quieted his impatient +temper, and checked his rudeness, without showing any disturbance. +This she had to do daily. At almost every meal she found it +necessary to repress his rude impatience. It was line upon line, and +precept upon precept. But she never tired, and rarely permitted +herself to show that she was disturbed, no matter how deeply grieved +she was at times over the wild and reckless spirit of her boy. + +On the next day she was not very well; her head ached badly all the +morning. Hearing the children in the passage when they came in from +school at noon, she was, rising from the bed where she had lain +down, to attend to them and give them their dinners, when Aunt Mary +said--"Don't get up, Anna, I will see to the children." + +It was rarely that Mrs. Hartley let any one do for them what she +could do herself, for no one else could manage the unhappy temper of +Clarence; but so violent was the pain in her head, that she let Aunt +Mary go, and sank back upon the pillow from which she had arisen. A +good deal of noise and confusion continued to reach her ears, from +the moment the children came in. At length a loud cry and passionate +words from Clarence caused her to rise up quickly and go over to the +dining-room. All was confusion there, and Aunt Mary out of humour +and scolding prodigiously. Clarence was standing up at the table, +looking defiance at her, on account of some interference with his +strong self-will. The moment the boy saw his mother, his countenance +changed, and a look of confusion took the place of anger. + +"Come over to my room, Clarence," she said, in a low voice; there +was sadness in its tones, that made him feel sorry that he had given +vent so freely to his ill-temper. + +"What was the matter, my son?" Mrs. Hartley asked, as soon as they +were alone, taking Clarence by the hand and looking steadily at him. + +"Aunt Mary wouldn't help me when I asked her." + +"Why not?" + +"She would help Henry first." + +"No doubt she had a reason for it. Do you know her reason?" + +"She said he was youngest." Clarence pouted out his lips, and spoke +in a very disagreeable tone. + +"Don't you think that was a very good reason?" + +"I've as good a right to be helped first as he has." + +"Let us see if that is so. You and Marien and Henry came in from +school, all hungry and anxious for your dinners. Marien is +oldest--she, one would suppose, from the fact that she is oldest, +would be better able to feel for her brothers, and be willing to see +their wants supplied before her own. You are older than Henry, and +should feel for him in the same way. No doubt this was Aunt Mary's +reason for helping Henry first. Had she helped Marien?" + +"No, ma'am." + +"Did Marien complain?" + +"No, ma'am." + +"No one complained but my unhappy Clarence. Do you know why you +complained? I can tell you, as I have often told you before; it is +because you indulge in very selfish feelings. All who do so, make +themselves miserable. If, instead of wanting Aunt Mary to help you +first, you had, from a love of your little brother, been willing to +see him first attended to, you would have enjoyed a real pleasure. +If you had said--'Aunt Mary, help Harry first,' I am sure Henry +would have said instantly--' No, Aunt Mary, help brother Clarence +first.' How pleasant this would have been! how happy would all of us +have felt at thus seeing two little brothers generously preferring +one another!" + +There was an unusual degree of tenderness, even sadness in the voice +of his mother, that affected Clarence; but he struggled with his +feelings. When, however, she resumed, and said--"I have felt quite +sick all the morning; my head has ached badly--so badly that I have +had to lie down. I always give you your dinners when you come home, +and try to make you comfortable. To-day I let Aunt Mary do it, +because I felt so sick; but I am sorry that I did not get up, sick +as I was, and do it myself; then I might have prevented this unhappy +outbreak of my boy's unruly temper, that has made not only my head +ache ten times as badly as it did, but my heart ache also"-- + +Clarence burst into tears, and throwing his arms ground his mother's +neck, wept bitterly. + +"I will try and be good, dear mother," he said. "I do try sometimes, +but it seems that I can't." + +"You must always try, my dear son. Now dry up your tears, and go out +and get your dinner. Or, if you would rather I should go with you, I +will do so." + +"No, dear mother," replied the boy, affectionately, "you are sick; +you must not go. I will be good." + +Clarence kissed his mother again, and then returned quietly to the +dining-room. + +"Naughty boy!" said Aunt Mary, as he entered, looking sternly at +him. + +A bitter retort came instantly to the tongue of Clarence, but he +checked himself with a strong effort, and took his place at the +table. Instead of soothing the quick-tempered boy, Aunt Mary chafed +him by her words and manner during the whole meal, and it was only +the image of his mother's tearful face, and the remembrance that she +was sick, that restrained an outbreak of his passionate temper. + +When Clarence left the table, he returned to his mother's room, and +laid his head upon the pillow where her's was resting. + +"I love you, mother," he said, affectionately, "you are good. But I +hate Aunt Mary." + +"Oh, no, Clarence; you must not say that you hate Aunt Mary, for +Aunt Mary is very kind to you. You mustn't hate anybody." + +"She isn't kind to me, mother. She calls me a bad boy, and says +every thing to make me angry when I want to be good." + +"Think, my son, if there is not some reason for Aunt Mary calling +you a bad boy. You know yourself, that you act very naughtily +sometimes, and provoke Aunt Mary--a great deal." + +"But she said I was a naughty boy when I went out just now, and I +was sorry for what I had done, and wanted to be good." + +"Aunt Mary didn't know that you were sorry, I am sure. When she +called you 'naughty boy,' what did you say?" + +"I was going to say 'You're a fool!' but I didn't. I tried hard not +to let my tongue say the bad words, though it wanted to." + +"Why did you try not to say them?" + +"Because it would have been wrong, and would have made you feel +sorry; and I love you." Again the repentant boy kissed her. His eyes +were full of tears, and so were the eyes of his mother. + +While talking over this incident with her husband, Mrs. Hartley +said--"Were not all these impressions so light, I would feel +encouraged. The boy has warm and tender feelings, but I fear that +his passionate temper and selfishness will, like evil weeds, +completely check their growth." + +"The case is bad enough, Anna, but not so bad, I hope, as you fear. +These good affections are never active in vain. They impress the +mind with an indelible impression. In after years the remembrance of +them will revive the states they produced, and give strength to good +desires and intentions. Amid all his irregularities and wanderings +from good, in after-life, the thoughts of his mother will restore +the feelings he had to-day, and draw him back from evil with cords +of love that cannot be broken. The good now implanted will remain, +and, like ten just men, save the city. In most instances where men +abandon themselves finally to evil courses, it will be found that +the impressions made in childhood were not of the right kind; that +the mother's influence was not what it should have been. For myself, +I am sure that a different mother would have made me a different +man. When a boy, I was too much like Clarence; but the tenderness +with which my mother always treated me, and the unimpassioned but +earnest manner in which she reproved and corrected my faults, +subdued my unruly temper. When I became restless or impatient, she +always had a book to read to me, or a story to tell, or had some +device to save me from myself. My father was neither harsh nor +indulgent towards me; I cherish his memory with respect and love; +but I have different feelings when I think of my mother. I often +feel, even now, as if she were near me--as if her cheek were laid to +mine. My father would place his hand upon my head caressingly, but +my mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did not expect my +father to do more--I do not know that I would have loved him had he +done more; for him it was a natural expression of affection; but no +act is too tender for a mother. Her kiss upon my cheek, her warm +embrace, are all felt now; and the older I grow, the more holy seem +the influences that surrounded me in childhood." + + + + + + +THE POWER OF PATIENCE. + + + + + +I HAVE a very excellent friend, who married some ten years ago, and +now has her own cares and troubles in a domestic establishment +consisting of her husband and herself, five children, and two +servants. Like a large majority of those similarly situated, Mrs. +Martinet finds her natural stock of patience altogether inadequate +to the demand therefor; and that there is an extensive demand will +be at once inferred when I mention that four of her five children +are boys. + +I do not think Mrs. Martinet's family government by any means +perfect, though she has certainly very much improved it, and gets on +with far more comfort to herself and all around her than she did. +For the improvement at which I have hinted, I take some credit to +myself, though I am by no means certain, that, were I situated as my +friend is, I should govern my family as well as she governs hers. I +am aware that a maiden lady, like myself, young or old, it matters +not to tell the reader which, can look down from the quiet regions +where she lives, and see how easy it would be for the wife and +mother to reduce all to order in her turbulent household. But I am +at the same time conscious of the difficulties that beset the wife +and mother in the incessant, exhausting, and health-destroying +nature of her duties, and how her mind, from these causes, must +naturally lose its clear-seeing qualities when most they are needed, +and its calm and even temper when its exercise is of most +consequence. Too little allowance, I am satisfied, is made for the +mother, who, with a shattered nervous system, and suffering too, +often, from physical prostration, is ever in the midst of her little +family of restless spirits, and compelled to administer to their +thousand wants, to guide, guard, protect, govern, and restrain their +evil passions, when of all things, repose and quiet of body and +mind, for even a brief season, would be the greatest blessing she +could ask. + +I have seen a wife and mother, thus situated, betrayed into a hasty +expression, or lose her self-command so far as to speak with fretful +impatience to a child who rather needed to be soothed by a calmly +spoken word; and I have seen her even-minded husband, who knew not +what it was to feel a pain, or to suffer from nervous prostration, +reprove that wife with a look that called the tears to her eyes. She +was wrong, but he was wrong in a greater degree. The over-tried wife +needed her husband's sustaining patience, and gently spoken counsel, +not his cold reproof. + +Husbands, as far as my observation gives me the ability to judge, +have far less consideration for, and patience with their wives, than +they are entitled to receive. If any should know best the wife's +trials, sufferings, and incessant exhausting duties, it is the +husband, and he, of all others, should be the last to censure, if, +from very prostration of body and mind, she be sometimes betrayed +into hasty words, that generally do more harm among children and +domestics than total silence in regard to what is wrong. But this is +a digression. + +One day, I called to see Mrs. Martinet, and found her in a very +disturbed state of mind. + +"I am almost worried to death, Kate!" she said, soon after I came +in. + +"You look unhappy," I returned. "What has happened?" + +"What is always happening," she replied. "Scarcely a day passes over +my head that my patience is not tried to the utmost. I must let +every body in the house do just as he or she likes, or else there is +a disturbance. I am not allowed to speak out my own mind, without +some one's being offended." + +"It is a great trial, as well as responsibility to have the charge +of a family," I remarked. + +"Indeed, and you may well say that. No one knows what it is but she +who has the trial. The greatest trouble is with your domestics. As a +class, they are, with few exceptions, dirty, careless, and impudent. +I sometimes think it gives them pleasure to interfere with your +household arrangements and throw all into disorder. This seems +especially to be the spirit of my present cook. My husband is +particular about having his meals at the hour, and is never pleased +when irregularities occur, although he does not often say any thing; +this I told Hannah, when she first came, and have scolded her about +being behindhand a dozen times since; and yet we do not have a meal +at the hour oftener than two or three times a week. + +"This morning, Mr. Martinet asked me if I wouldn't be particular in +seeing that dinner was on the table exactly at two o'clock. As soon +as he was gone, I went down into the kitchen and said, 'Do, for +mercy's sake, Hannah, have dinner ready at the hour to-day. Mr. +Martinet particularly desires it.' Hannah made no answer. It is one +of her disagreeable habits, when you speak to her. 'Did you hear +me?' I asked, quite out of patience with her. The creature looked up +at me with an impudent face and said, pertly, 'I'm not deaf.' 'Then, +why didn't you answer me when I spoke? It's a very ugly habit that +you have of not replying when any one addresses you. How is it to be +known that you hear what is said?' The spirit in which Hannah met my +request to have dinner ready in time, satisfied me that she would so +manage as to throw it off beyond the regular hour. I left the +kitchen feeling, as you may well suppose, exceedingly worried." + +Just then the door of the room in which we were sitting was thrown +open with a bang, and in bounded Harry, Mrs. Martinet's eldest +boy--a wild young scape-grace of a fellow--and whooping out some +complaint against his sister. His mother, startled and annoyed by +the rude interruption, ordered him to leave the room instantly. But +Harry stood his ground without moving an eyelash. + +"Do you hear?" And Mrs. Martinet stamped with her foot, to give +stronger emphasis to her words. + +"Lizzy snatched my top-cord out of my hands, and won't give it to +me!" + +"Go out of this room!" + +"Shan't Lizzy give me my top-cord?" + +"Go out, I tell you!" + +"I want my top-cord." + +"Go out!" + +My poor friend's face was red, and her voice trembling with passion. +With each renewed order for the child to leave the room, she stamped +with her foot upon the floor. Harry, instead of going out as he was +directed to do, kept advancing nearer and nearer, as he repeated his +complaint, until he came close up to where we were sitting. + +"Didn't I tell you to go out!" exclaimed his mother, losing all +patience. + +As she spoke, she arose hastily, and seizing him by the arm, +dragged, rather than led him from the room. + +"I never saw such a child!" she said, returning after closing the +door upon Harry. "Nothing does but force. You might talk to him all +day without moving him an inch, when he gets in one of these moods." + +Bang went the door open, and, "I (sic) wan't my top-cord!" followed +in louder and more passionate tones than before. + +"Isn't it beyond all endurance!" cried my friend, springing up and +rushing across the room. + +The passionate child, who had been spoiled by injudicious +management, got a sound whipping and was shut up in a room by +himself. After performing this rather unpleasant task, Mrs. Martinet +returned to the parlour, flushed, excited, and trembling in every +nerve. + +"I expect that boy will kill me yet," she said, as she sank, +panting, into a chair. "It is surprising how stubborn and +self-willed he grows. I don't know how to account for it. He never +has his own way--I never yield an inch to him when he gets in these +terrible humours. Oh, dear! I feel sometimes like giving up in +despair." + +I did not make a reply, for I could not say any thing that would not +have been a reproof of her impatient temper. After my friend had +grown calmer, she renewed her narrative about the dinner. + +"As I was saying, when that boy interrupted us, I left the kitchen +very much worried, and felt worried all the morning. Several times I +went down to see how things were coming on, but it was plain that +Hannah did not mean to have dinner at the hour. When it was time to +put the meat on to roast, the fire was all down in the range. Half +an hour was lost in renewing it. As I expected, when my husband came +home for his dinner, at the regular time, the table was not even +set. + +"'Bless me!' he said, 'isn't dinner ready? I told you that I wished +it at the hour, particularly. I have a business engagement at +half-past two, that must be met. It is too bad! I am out of all +patience with these irregularities. I can't wait, of course.' + +"And saying this, Mr. Martinet turned upon his heel and left the +house. As you may suppose, I did not feel very comfortable, nor in a +very good humour with Hannah. When she made her appearance to set +the table, which was not for a quarter of an hour, I gave her about +as good a setting down, I reckon, as she ever had in her life. Of +course, I was paid back in impudence which I could not stand, and +therefore gave her notice to quit. If ever a woman was tried beyond +endurance, I am. My very life is becoming a burden to me. The worst +part of it is, there is no prospect of a change for the better. +Things, instead of growing better, grow worse." + +"It is not so bad as that, I hope," I could not help remarking. +"Have you never thought of a remedy for the evils of which you +complain?" + +"A remedy, Kate! What remedy is there?" + +Mrs. Martinet looked at me curiously. + +"If not a remedy, there is, I am sure, a palliative," I returned, +feeling doubtful of the effect of what I had it in my mind to +express. + +"What is the remedy or palliative of which you speak. Name it, for +goodness' sake! Like a drowning man, I will clutch it, if it be but +a straw." + +"The remedy is _patience_." My voice slightly faltered as I spoke. + +Instantly the colour deepened on the face of Mrs. Martinet. But our +close intimacy, and her knowledge of the fact that I was really a +friend, prevented her from being offended. + +"Patience!" she said, after she had a little recovered herself. +"Patience is no remedy. To endure is not to cure." + +"In that, perhaps, you are mistaken," I returned. "The effect of +patience is to cure domestic evils. A calm exterior and a gentle, +yet firm voice, will in nine cases in ten, effect more than the most +passionate outbreak of indignant feelings. I have seen it tried over +and over again, and I am sure of the effect." + +"I should like to have seen the effect of a gentle voice upon my +Harry, just now." + +"Forgive me for saying," I answered to this, "that in my opinion, if +you had met his passionate outbreak at the wrong he had suffered in +losing his top-cord, in a different manner from what you did, that +the effect would have been of a like different character." + +My friend's face coloured more deeply, and her lips trembled. But +she had good sense, and this kept her from being offended at what I +said. I went on-- + +"There is no virtue more necessary in the management of a household +than patience. It accomplishes almost every thing. Yet it is a hard +virtue to practise, and I am by no means sure that, if I were in +your place, I would practise it any better than you do. But it is of +such vital importance to the order, comfort, and well-being of a +family, to be able patiently and calmly to meet every disturbing and +disorderly circumstance, that it is worth a struggle to attain the +state of mind requisite to do so. To meet passion with passion does +no good, but harm. The mind, when disturbed from any cause, is +disturbed more deeply when it meets an opposing mind in a similar +state. This is as true of children as of grown persons, and perhaps +more so, for their reason is not matured, and therefore there is +nothing to balance their minds. It is also more true of those who +have not learned, from reason, to control themselves, as is the case +with too large a portion of our domestics; who need to be treated +with almost as much forbearance and consideration as children." + +These remarks produced a visible effect upon Mrs. Martinet. She +became silent and reflective, and continued so, to a great extent, +during the half-hour that I remained. + +Nearly two weeks elapsed before I called upon my friend again. I +found her, happily, in a calmer state of mind than upon my previous +visit. We were in the midst of a pleasant conversation, half an hour +after I had come in, when one of the children, a boy between seven +and eight years old, came into the room and made some complaint +against his brother. The little fellow was excited, and broke in +upon our quiet chitchat with a rude jar that I felt quite sensibly. +I expected, of course, to hear him ordered from the room instantly. +That had been my friend's usual proceeding when these interruptions +occurred; at least it had been so when I happened to be a visitor. +But instead of this, she said in a low, mild, soothing voice, + +"Well, never mind, Willy. You stay in the parlour with us, where +Harry can't trouble you." + +This was just the proposition, above all others, to please the +child. His face brightened, and he came and nestled up closely to +his mother, who was sitting on a corner of the sofa. Drawing an arm +around him, she went on with the remarks she happened to be making +when the interruption of his entrance occurred. No very long time +elapsed before the parlour door flew open, and Harry entered, +asking, as he did so, in a loud voice, for Willy. + +"Willy is here. What do you want with him?" said the mother, in a +quiet, but firm tone. + +"I want him to come and play." + +"You were not kind to Willy, and he doesn't wish to play with you." + +"Come, Willy, and play, and I will be kind," said Harry. + +"Will you let me be the master sometimes?" asked the little fellow, +raising himself up from where he remained seated beside his mother. + +"Yes, you shall be master, sometimes." + +"Then I'll play," and Willy sprang from the sofa and bounded from +the room, as happy as he could be. + +The mother smiled, and looking into my face, as soon as we were +alone, said-- + +"You see, Kate, that I am trying your remedy, patience." + +"With most happy results, I am glad to see." + +"With better results than I could have believed, certainly. +Gentleness, consideration, and firmness, I find do a great deal, and +their exercise leaves my own mind in a good state. There is a power +in patience that I did not believe it possessed. I can do more by a +mildly spoken word, than by the most emphatic command uttered in a +passion. This is the experience of a few weeks. But, alas! Kate, to +be able to exercise patience--how hard a thing that is! It requires +constant watchfulness and a constant effort. Every hour I find +myself betrayed into the utterance of some hasty word, and feel its +powerlessness compared to those that are most gently spoken." + +"Do you get on with your domestics any better than you did?" + +"Oh, yes! Far better." + +"I suppose you sent Hannah away some time ago?" + +"No. I have her yet." + +"Indeed!" + +"Yes, and she does very well." + +"Does she get your meals ready in time?" + +"She is punctual to the minute." + +"Really she must have changed for the better! And is this, too, the +result of patience and forbearance on your part?" + +"I suppose so. What you said in regard to having patience, at your +last visit, struck me forcibly, and caused me to feel humbled and +self-condemned. The more I thought of it, the more satisfied was I +that you were right. But it was one thing to see the use of +patience, and another thing to exercise it. To be patient amid the +turbulence, ill-tempers, and disobedience of children, and the +irregularities, carelessness and neglect of domestics, seemed a +thing impossible. I was in this state of doubt as to my ability to +exercise the virtue so much needed in my household, when Hannah came +to the door of the room where I was sitting in no very happy mood, +and notified me of some want in the kitchen in an exceedingly +provoking way. I was about replying sharply and angrily; but +suddenly checking myself, I said in a quiet, mild way, 'Very well, +Hannah. I will see that it is supplied.' + +"The girl stood for some moments, looking at me with an expression +of surprise on her face, and then walked away. This was a victory +over myself, and I felt, also, a victory over her. Not half an hour +elapsed, before, on passing near the kitchen, she said to me, in a +very respectful manner: + +"'I forgot to tell you, this morning, that the tea was all out. But +I can run round to the store and get some in a few minutes.' + +"'Do so, if you please, Hannah,' I returned, without evincing the +slightest feeling of annoyance at her neglect; 'and try, if you can, +to have tea ready precisely at six o'clock.' + +"'I will have it ready, ma'am,' she replied. And it was ready. + +"Had I not exercised patience and self-control, the interview would +have been something after this fashion: about ten minutes before +tea-time, Hannah would have come to me and said, with provoking +coolness-- + +"'The tea's all out.' + +"To which I would have replied sharply-- + +"'Why, in the name of goodness, did not you say so this morning? You +knew that you had used the last drawing! I declare you are the most +provoking creature I ever knew. You'll have to go to the store and +get some.' + +"'I'm not fit to be seen in the street,' she would in all +probability have replied. + +"And then I, losing all patience, would have soundly scolded her, +and gained nothing but a sick-headache, perhaps, for my pains. Tea, +in all probability, would have been served at about eight o'clock. +You see the difference." + +"And a very material one it is." + +"Isn't it? As you well said, there is a power in patience undreamed +of by those who seek not its exercise. Next morning, when I had any +occasion to speak to Hannah, I did so with much mildness, and if I +had occasion to find fault, requested a change rather than +enunciated a reproof. The girl changed as if by magic. She became +respectful in her manner toward me, and evinced a constant anxiety +to do every thing as I wished to have it done. Not once since have +we had a meal as much as ten minutes later than the appointed time." + +I could not but express the happiness I felt at the change, and urge +my excellent friend to persevere. This she has done, and the whole +aspect of things in her family has changed. + +There are times, however, when, from ill-health, or a return of old +states, she recedes again into fretfulness; but the reaction upon +her is so immediate and perceptible, that she is driven in +self-defence to patience and forbearance, the result of which is +order and quiet in her family just in the degree that patience and +forbearance are exercised. + + + + + + +AN OLD MAN'S RECOLLECTIONS. + + + + + +"I AM not a _very_ old man," said a venerable friend to me, one day, +"yet my head has become whitened and my cheeks furrowed:--and often, +as I pause and lean upon my staff, at the corners of the streets, +the present reality gives place to dreams of the past, and I see +here, instead of the massive pile of brick and marble, the low frame +dwelling, and there, in place of the lines of tall warehouses, +humble tenements. If, in my aimless wanderings about the city, I +turn my steps towards the suburbs, I find that change, too, has been +there. I miss the woods and fields where once, with the gay +companions of early years, I spent many a summer hour. Beautiful +dwellings have sprung up, it seems to me as if by magic, where but +yesterday I plucked fruit from overladen branches, or flung myself +to rest among the tall grass or ripening grain. + +"But other changes than this have marked the passage of time. +Changes that cause them to sink into obscurity in comparison. +Thousands in our goodly city have passed from the cradle to the +grave, during the years that have been allotted to me; and thousands +have proved that all the promises of early years were vain. All +external mutations would attract but little attention, did they not +recall other and more important changes. Thought and feeling have +put on forms, as new and strange, but not, alas! so full of happy +indications. Prosperity has crowned the toil and enterprise of our +citizens; but how few of the many who were prosperous when I was in +my prime are among the wealthy now! How few of the families that +filled the circles of fashion then, have left any of their scattered +members to grace the glittering circles now! The wheel of fortune +has ceased not its revolutions for a moment. Hopes that once spread +their gay leaves to the pleasant airs have been blighted and +scattered by the chilling winds of adversity. + +"Pausing and leaning upon my staff, as I have said, I often muse +thus, when some object recalls the memory of one and another who +have finished their course and been gathered to their fathers. In +every city and village, wherever there is human life, with its evil +passions and good affections, there are histories to stir the heart +and unseal the fountains of tears. Truth, it is said, is strange, +stranger than fiction; and never was there a truer sentiment +uttered. In all the fictions that I have read, nothing has met my +eye so strange and heart-stirring as the incidents in real life that +have transpired in the families of some of our own citizens. Any +one, of years and observation, in any city, will bear a like +testimony. The circumstance of their actual occurrence, and the fact +that the present reality diminishes, from many causes, our surprise +at events, tend to make us think lightly of what is going on around +us. And, besides this, we ordinarily see only the surface of +society. The writer of fiction unveils the mind and heart of those +he brings into action, and we see all. We perceive their thoughts +and feel their emotions. But, if we could look into the bosoms of +those we meet daily, and read there the hopes and fears that excite +or depress, we should perceive all around us living histories of +human passion and emotion that would awaken up our most active +sympathies. All this, however, is hidden from our eyes. And it is +only, in most instances, when the present becomes the past, that we +are permitted to lift the veil, and look at the reality beneath." + +We were sitting near a window overlooking one of the principal +streets of our city, and a slight noise without, at this time, +attracted our attention. + +"There she is again. Poor Flora! How my heart aches for you!" my +companion suddenly ejaculated, in a tone of deep sympathy, after +gazing into the street for a moment or two. + +"Who is it?" I asked. + +"Do you see that poor creature, slowly moving along just opposite?" + +"Yes." + +"Twenty years ago, there was not a gayer girl in the city; nor one +more truly beloved by all." + +"She?" + +"Yes. Nor one of fairer hopes." + +"Hope has indeed sadly mocked her!" said I, giving almost +involuntary utterance to the thought that instantly passed through +my mind. Just then I caught a glimpse of her face, that was partly +turned towards us. Though marked by disease and sorrow, it was yet +no common face. It still bore traces of womanly beauty, that no eye +could mistake. + +"Poor Flora! what a history of disappointed hopes and crushed +affections is thine! What a lesson for the young, the thoughtless, +the innocent!" the old man said, as he retired from the window. + +"Who is she?" I asked, after a brief pause. + +"You have seen that beautiful old mansion that stands in--street, +just above--?" + +"Yes." + +"It is now used as an extensive boarding-house; but in my younger +days, it was one of the most princely establishments in the city. It +then stood alone, and had attached to it beautifully laid-out +grounds, stocked with the rarest and richest plants, all in the +highest state of cultivation. No American workman could produce +furniture good enough for its aristocratic owner. Every thing was +bought in Paris, and upon the most extensive scale. And truly, the +internal arrangement of Mr. T--'s dwelling was magnificent, almost +beyond comparison at the time." + +"And was that the daughter of Mr. T--?" I asked, in surprise. + +"Yes, that was Flora T--," the old man said, in a voice that had +in it an expression of sad feeling, evidently conjured up by the +reminiscence. + +"You knew her in her better days?" + +"As well as I knew my own sister. She was one of the gentlest of her +sex. No one could meet her without loving her." + +"She married badly?" + +"Yes. That tells the whole secret of her present wretched condition. +Alas! how many a sweet girl have I seen dragged down, by a union +with some worthless wretch, undeserving the name of a man! There is +scarcely a wealthy family in our city, into which some such an one +has not insinuated himself, destroying the peace of all, and +entailing hopeless misery upon one all unfit to bear her changed +lot. The case of Flora is an extreme one. Her husband turned out to +be a drunkard, and her father's family became reduced in +circumstances, and finally every member of it either passed from +this world, or sank into a state of indigence, little above that of +her own. But the worst feature in this history of wretchedness is +the fact, that Flora, in sinking so low externally, lost that sweet +spirit of innocence which once gave a tone of so much loveliness to +her character. Her husband not only debased her condition, but +corrupted her mind. Oh, what a wreck she has become!" + +"How few families there are," said I, after a few moments, "as you +have justly remarked, the happiness of which has not been destroyed +by the marriage of a much loved and fondly cherished daughter and +sister, to one all unworthy of the heart whose best affections had +been poured out upon him like water." + +"The misery arising from this cause," the old man said, "is +incalculable. Nor does it always show itself in the extreme external +changes that have marked Flora T--'s sad history. I could take you +to many houses, fine houses too, and richly arrayed within, where +hearts are breaking in the iron grasp of a husband's unfeeling hand, +that contracts with a slow, torturing cruelty, keeping its victim +lingering day after day, week after week, month after month, and +year after year, looking and longing for the hour when the deep +quiet of the grave shall bring peace--sweet peace." + +* * * + +"As I thus look back through a period of some twenty, thirty, and +forty years," continued the old man, "noting the changes that have +taken place, and counting over the hopes that have been given like +chaff to the winds, I feel sad. And yet, amid all this change and +disappointment, there is much to stir the heart with feelings of +pleasure. A single instance I will relate: + +"A very intimate friend, a merchant, had three daughters, to whom he +gave an education the best that could be obtained. When the eldest +was but twenty, and the youngest fourteen, Mr. W--failed in +business. Every thing passed from his hands, and he was left +entirely penniless. Well advanced in years, with his current of +thoughts, from long habit, going steadily in one way, this shock +almost entirely prostrated him. He could not find courage to explain +to his daughters his condition, and the change that awaited them. +But they loved their father too well not to perceive that something +was wrong. Suspecting the true cause, the eldest, unknown to him, +waited upon one of his clerks at his residence, and received from +him a full statement of her father's affairs. She begged that +nothing might be concealed; and so obtained all the information that +the clerk could give, from which she saw plainly that the family +would be entirely broken up, and worse than all, perhaps scattered, +the children from their father. + +"On returning home, she took her younger sisters, and fully +explained to them the gloomy prospect in view. Then she explained to +them her plan, by which the force of the storm might be broken. In +it they all gladly acquiesced. This plan, they proceeded, unknown to +their father, to put into execution. + +"It was about one week after, that the old man came home so much +troubled in mind that he was compelled to leave the tea-table, his +food untasted. As he arose, his children arose also, and followed +him into the parlours. + +"'Dear father!' said the eldest, coming up to his side, and drawing +her arm around his neck--'do not be troubled. We know it all, and +are prepared for the worst.' + +"'Know what, my child?' he asked in surprise. + +"'Know that our condition is changed. And know more--that we are +prepared to meet that change with brave, true hearts.' + +"The tears came into the daughter's eyes as she said this--not tears +for her changed prospect--but tears for her father. + +"'And we are all prepared to meet it,' broke in the other two, +gathering around the old man. + +"'God bless you, my children!' Mr. W--murmured, with a voice +choked with emotion. 'But, you know not how low you have fallen. I +am a beggar!' + +"'Not quite,' was the now smiling reply of his eldest child. 'We +learned it all--and at once determined that we would do our part. +For two weeks, we have been out among our friends, and freely +related our plans and the reason for adopting them. The result is, +we obtained forty scholars to a school we have determined to open, +for teaching music, French, drawing, &c. You are not a beggar, dear +father! And never shall be, while you have three daughters to love +you!' + +"The old man's feelings gave way, and he wept like a child. He could +not object to the proposition of his children. The school was at +once opened, and is still conducted by the two youngest. It proved a +means of ample support to the family. To some men, the fact that +their children had been compelled to resort to daily labour, in any +calling, for a support, would have been deeply humiliating. Not so +to Mr. W--. That evidence of his daughters' love to him +compensated for all the changes which circumstances, uncontrolled by +himself, had effected." + +THE END. + + + + + +Project Gutenberg's Home Scenes, and Home Influence, by T.S. 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